Now, it was up to Orim. She would not test this substance on any person until she had tested it on herself. After dissecting Phyrexian corpses, Orim had little stomach for the curative caviar, but she would do anything for Hanna. Drawing a deep breath, she lifted the jiggling black mass to her mouth. The spoon slid reluctantly over her teeth.

Tiny, cold spheres settled on her tongue. They felt like minute beads of glass, sliding down behind her teeth. They tasted of oil. She dared not chew but only swallowed. The platelets crowded down her throat. They slid into her belly. It felt chill and dark. The sensation spread from her stomach into her blood. Was it only her mind, or did this feel like a tiny invasion? A shudder moved through her, the coolness spreading under her clothes and out to her fingertips.

"That should be enough time," Orim sighed.

She lifted a knife from her worktable, set its tip on her biceps, and drew the blade down in a brief, deep cut. It was almost painless, the knife was so sharp. The blade came away. A drop of crimson welled up from the slit. Putting down the knife, Orim lifted a plague infected leaf, opened the cut, and crumbled the black corruption into the wound. Every instinct she had-not only as a healer but as a living being-shivered at the sight of those black flakes adhering to the cut flesh.

Clamping a cloth over the spot, Orim closed her eyes and hissed. This strain of the plague was virulent enough that it would turn the skin necrotic in moments. She needed wait only those moments to see if she had devised a serum or if she were joining Hanna on the road to death.

Pulling the cloth away, Orim drew the sides of the wound apart. She peered down into perfect, red flesh. A deep, thankful breath filled her. She said a silent thanks to the powers of healing and water.

"Oh, Hanna," Orim said, though she knew her patient still slept. "The first hope. It cannot save you, hut it can save others. I'll keep working until I have a cure." Dashing tears from her eyes, Orim snatched up a vial of the platelets and approached Hanna.

She lay on her side, knees drawn up over the belly wound that was killing her.

Sitting on her bunk, Orim reached out gently to stroke her friend's hair. Hanna was so thin. Her face seemed skin stretched over a skull. Her eyes were visible beneath translucent lids. Her neck was a bundle of straining cords. Only her hair was as it had been-streaming gold. Fondly, Orim drew her fingers through the strands.

"Hanna, wake up. I have something for you."

A shuddering breath went through Hanna. She rolled to her back. She eased her legs downward. They seemed as thin as sticks beneath the blankets. Blue lids pulled back from bloodshot eyes. Orim bit her lip to see the chronic pain there.

Hanna muttered weakly, "Something… for me?"

"It's not a cure-but it will stop the disease from advancing." Orim held up the vial. "It'll keep a healthy person from catching it."

"Thank you," Hanna said, reaching up. She did not clutch the vial but Orim's arm. "Use it on someone it can save."

Orim's eyes clouded. "There is enough. I want you to take this. It will buy time."

Not releasing her friend's arm, Hanna drew aside the gown. The bandages that looped her midsection seemed loose, as though she had shrunk. Even beyond the edge of those bandages, her skin was gray from shoulder to thigh. Tendrils of corruption reached farther, to elbow and knee.

"Time for what?" She covered herself again. "Please, give it to someone it will save."

Orim sadly patted her friend's cheek. "Gerrard has ordered it. Now, open up."

Her eyes hard and angry, Hanna took the spoonful.

"I won't give up, Hanna. I'm going to find a cure."

"Thank you, Orim," Hanna said quietly. "Thank you… I need to sleep."

"Yes," responded the healer. She drew Hanna's blankets up to her shoulders. A chill went down her spine. One day, and sooner than later, she would be drawing these blankets up over Hanna's face. "Sleep, dear girl. Sleep."

Turning, Orim retreated to her worktable. Hanna breathed in quiet rest as Orim gathered the rack of vials. She pushed back the sick bay door and climbed the stairs. The tiny bottles rattled as she rose.

Here, beyond the Phyrexian corpses and the caged testcreatures, Weatherlight ceased to be a laboratory and became a warship. An ensign hurried down the companionway above, reading from a page in his hand the names of the refugees who were to eat next. Orim continued on until she reached the amidships hatch. She climbed through to stand on the deck.

Gerrard crouched on the deck, working with a crew who were easing the repaired port-side ray cannon back into its moorings. He was bare to the waist and sweating, though a steady breeze came over the prow to him.

Orim approached, lifting the rack of vials. "I have it, enough serum for the ship's whole complement and some left over."

From the grease-track where he knelt, Gerrard looked up. "You have it? A cure?"

"Not a cure. I have an immunity serum."

He was on his feet. "Will it help Hanna?" Orim shook her head slowly.

An angry line knitted Gerrard's brow, but he managed to say, "Good work. You've saved us."

"Most of us."

"Administer the serum. Once everyone is treated, I want you to set aside the rest-as much as you can spare- for a gift."

"A gift?" she asked.

"We're landing in the treetops. Not the whole armada, just Weatherlight and her immune crew. The ship herself should somehow ingest some of the serum, to make her hull impervious. I'll ask Hanna how-"

"Ask Karn," Orim suggested.

Nodding stiffly, Gerrard said, "I want to take the rest of the serum to whomever might survive there, as a sign of our alliance. We'll land in the center of the devastation- there's a ruined palace down there-and we'll search until we find the native people."

Orim's eyes shone. "Good. Perhaps we'll also find more Phyrexians. Give me more Phyrexians, and I'll give you more serum."

Gerrard nodded, his eyes like poniards. "I'll give you more Phyrexians."

It was no easy task for Multani to find the refugees, down so deep. The Dreaming Caves lay below Llanowar's water table. Most roots sank no lower than this subterranean sea. Its bed was a shelf of granite a hundred yards thick. The Dreaming Caves hid beneath. The Phyrexians could not have found them there, and even Multani would not have except for the guidance of Molimo. He showed the way. Though most roots did not plumb the water table and crack the granite shelf, quosumic tap roots did.

A tree that stands thousands of feet tall plunges equally deep.

Still, the way was not easy. Multani spiraled down a quosumic tree that pulsed with agony. The tree's crown had been eaten by plague. Not a single leaf remained. Half the branches were destroyed. Rot-plague girdled the bole in five separate rings. To move through dying wood was terrifying. Every impulse cried out that Multani should escape. Instead, he coursed lower, beneath the fecund humus, through the frigid underworld sea, through even granite, to the caves.

Multani emerged from the taproot precisely where the refugees had. He assembled a body for himself out of albino tendrils and glowing lichens. Cave crickets became his eyes and blond roaches his fingers and toes. It was a spectral form, venous and shimmering, but it was the only life he could gather in these deeps. Surely, he would be no more ghastly than the refugees themselves. He followed their footprints.

Something strange-a fresh warm breeze rolled up the passage toward him. It felt like the soft tides of air that bring spring rain. It smelled of lightning. Here, three thousand feet below the over-world, blew breezes redolent with life. It was impossible or at least miraculous.