Tales of the Latter Kingdoms, Books 1-3 by Christine Pope

Author:Christine Pope [Pope, Christine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dark Valentine Press

Chapter 13

We could not bury the body, of course; the ground was frozen solid and would remain that way for some months. Ourrel’s men left a pile of firewood near the rear entrance of the stables. Everyone in the household was under strict orders to stay away, and so we sent the boy—whose name was Drym, as it turned out—from this world on a pyre that rivaled those of the barbarian kings of old. And then we could do little but wait and worry, and wonder who would be next.

A day passed in such quiet misery. The stableboys sent furtive looks at one another, as if trying to see who might be displaying any symptoms of the plague. None of them did, so far—they were a thin but healthy lot, as far as I could tell. Perhaps Drym had been the exception, and perhaps the disease would pass the rest of us by. That was foolishness, I knew, but the heart will often hope for what the mind knows cannot come to pass.

Ourrel brought by more supplies, and Lord Shaine came to me in the late morning. I had no words of reassurance for him, save my continuing health, but that seemed to be enough for the moment. He spoke quietly of his sorrow at Drym’s passing, and I could only say in response that at least the boy’s death seemed to have come to him peacefully enough. I did not bother to mention that it was a far better fate than that which had met those in Lord Arnad’s household. There was no use in painting pictures of future horrors. And after a murmured wish that our quarantine would not continue for much longer, he left. He had his own frightened household to keep watch over. After he left, I tried to hold the sound of his voice within my mind, the warm tones that always made me think of a finely tuned woodwind. It was all I could have of him, it seemed.

And on the third day of our quarantine, Wilys came to me with a face somehow pale and flushed at the same time. His steps, which usually seemed so steady, now wavered, and he watched me with frightened, bloodshot eyes.

No, I thought. Not him. Of all of them, he should have been safe.

“I have it, don’t I?” he asked. And though the expression in his eyes reminded me of a wild animal caught in a trap, his voice sounded calm enough.

“Perhaps,” I replied. One touch on his forehead told me he burned with fever. “Any aches?”

“My head pounds, and I hurt here.” He reached up and touched his left armpit, but gingerly, as if even the slightest pressure pained him.

I knew what that meant, of course, but I still had to see for myself. “May I?” I inquired.

A careful nod, and he watched with white-circled eyes as I removed his leather jerkin and then undid the laces on the heavy linen shirt he wore underneath. Sure

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