White Pagan, page 60
part #6 of Kestrel Harper Saga Series
Thanks to Owain and Merrek’s wisdom, Fiara had considerable stores of grain and cured meat, but after two years of drowning rain, that supply had thinned to the point where most worried about starvation. Mercifully, no rain had fallen in nearly six months. The levels in Lake Curo and the rivers that fed it were dropping and the over-saturated land had begun to dry out. With the return of the wet season, however, many feared that the respite would not last.
With Asta now departed and Merrek installed in Rhidam, Gabrielle had been at liberty to do as she thought best for the people of her city. Having nursed Owain through long agonizing weeks as his lungs filled with fluid he could barely expel, watching his body weaken and decay around his indomitable spirit, remaining strong to be everything he needed her to be, Gabrielle believed the skills learned in that trial would be useful in aiding Fiara’s sick and dying.
She respected Merrek’s wishes by not bringing the suffering into the manor to limit contamination, in case he, Arlana, Lorant, and Conroy came. That restriction did not prevent her from going into Fiara. Alone, with only the staff for company, she opted to spend her days at the náós aiding the staff in caring for the afflicted. She had taken the precautions the Elyri healers suggested, wearing gloves, covering her mouth and nose with a cloth, cleaning her hands and face as often as she could, and never bringing them near her mouth and nose until they were clean.
Despite her efforts to make her people well, there was little to be done beyond easing their suffering, just as there had been little to do but make Owain comfortable. Despite her efforts to protect herself, the northern Sister had settled in her lungs and would not depart.
She had accepted the risk of servitude knowing k'Ádhá would either spare her or bring her to Owain’s side, content to face either outcome while hoping to the end that she would see Kavan again.
Her path was decided. There was no other outcome for it. In the lucid moments when the plague-fog lifted to permit clear-headed thought, Gabrielle set her affairs in order and dwelt on pleasant things, memories of the men she loved, the children she had raised, the life she had lived because of them. Soon she expected to be at Owain’s side, and often, as she crept in and out of awareness, in a room filled with light and shadow from innumerable candles and the sweet perfume of holy, healing incense, she believed him to be there, in the mist at the edge of life, waiting to welcome her into his much-missed embrace. She spoke of that ghost to no one, for who but Kavan would believe such fancy?
Knowing Owain was waiting made the slipping out of life easier.
Her only regret, in the final moments of dimming vision, was that she could not say farewell to Kavan. If any of his doubts about the spiritual destination of Elyri were true, they might not even meet in the afterlife promised by their shared Faith.
Gabrielle chose to believe she would see him there.
Someday.
The voice that finally guided her into the waiting arms of Owain, Clianthe and Muir, and the feathered záryph, was unfamiliar but sincere, embracing and reassuring with his whispered, “He will be there,” washing over her like warm, petaled water. She looked back one last time to see the auburn-haired man smile before she gave in to the pull of eternal light.
She did not need a name to know who he was. He was there when Kavan could not be, and that was assurance enough.
***
He hurt too much, an ache of body and soul, to give in to the relentless bitterness that plagued him since the night his father had taken Raebhá away. In the miserable days spent on this pallet, his body cooled by damp cloths soaked in pungent ointment meant both to help him breathe and to keep the fabric of his bedding from sticking to the broken boils across his skin, Dhóri spent hour after hour dwelling on that darkness he had allowed into his life.
He regretted every word, every moment of it.
His father could not be blamed for falling in love. After a lifetime of raising two sons, tutoring countless other children, years spent in the service of multiple Lachlan monarchs, his father deserved to be happy, to find the love he freely gave to so many others. It had been an unfortunate coincidence that father and son found their hearts drawn to the same woman, and even more of an unfortunate coincidence that the woman was already married, for that meant that neither father nor son would have her. If by some twist of fate, her husband was dead as she thought, and she chose to bestow on Kavan the affection she felt, Dhóri could not begrudge his father that either.
No man should be forced to endure solitude unless it was a path they chose for themselves.
A celibate existence had been something Dhóri had already contemplated prior to Raebhá dropping into his life. His days had been happiest when wrapped in the fellowship of the men and women of St. Kóráhm’s, where he could read ancient texts as he copied them, aide in overseeing the financial status of the organization, and singing with the choir when the residents and townsfolk gathered to worship. He did not believe his temperament well-suited to be the lord of Alberni as his father’s was, and had resisted the knowledge that someday the title of Duke might fall onto his shoulders.
Now, as the wracking cough surged through him and he struggled to sit, to breathe, he doubted either future would come to pass. For the disrespect he had shown, for the resentment he had allowed to drive him during the weeks afterward, resentment that had prompted foolish chances with his life, he was being punished. Punished, and no matter how fervently he prayed for mercy, he knew he would die here and never recover the forgiveness of the man he had wronged.
“You will not die, phyl kyag. I promise you that.”
Having heard no one enter the room, no footsteps on the recently scrubbed stones, Dhóri had believed himself to be alone. The others who had been with him earlier, those Yóáná had struggled to nurse back to health, were gone, succumbing to the agony Dhóri knew first hand. Only Emeria and Laney had lived, and although weak, she insisted on managing the household duties her mother had shouldered as best she could while Laney returned to the care and oversight of the manor grounds. Both the healer and Rhyrdan had retreated to share the evening meal with her, believing Dhóri to be asleep.
The voice, unfamiliar in its warmth and accent, did not belong to Raenár, any of the servants, or any of the gdhededhá Dhóri knew.
“Who is there? Where are you?” Thus far, the eyesight stolen from him had yet to return and might, he was told, never come back. If he was robbed of a productive future, Dhóri had no desire to continue living. He might as well die…although he preferred that day did not come until he had the opportunity to apologize to his father.
Hands closed around his, tender and strong and full of power that jolted through Dhóri’s body, leaving a tingling vibration in his bones as it passed. Dhóri’s hands clenched as if he would pull away, but he had no desire to be free of what felt to be a holy touch. Like his father’s hands, but not the same. “dedhá?” he murmured. It had to be. There was no one else, except his father, who could touch someone like that.
Kavan was not here.
“No,” the soft voice chuckled with lips that pressed against the damp skin of Dhóri’s brow. “Only one here on behalf of your father to see to your well-being.”
Dhóri shook his head. Raenár then. “He would never come…and you should not be…I am dying. You’ll be tainted and…”
“There is no threat to me. You are not dying, not for many more decades. I assure you, phyl kyag, Kavan would be here if he could be.”
His father’s name on the other man’s lips was gentle, affectionate as if there was great love between the two, but Dhóri knew of no one so close to his father except for the now-absent Wortham. Not Raenár.
This was not Wortham, not in body, not in spirit. Dhóri had known the captain too well to mistake this man for him.
The impulse to cough, lesser now than it had been minutes before, shook Dhóri’s body and within his chest, he felt the familiar clenching of muscles against his ribs. That too had lessened, but as the coughing was reduced when he sat upright, Dhóri barely acknowledged the difference. The stranger sounded so certain that he would not die that Dhóri did not have the heart to contradict him.
He wanted to believe it was true.
Instead, he muttered bitterly, “I will be of no use without eyes, though I appreciate your intentions for my recovery.” He sighed with regret and defeat. “I’d accept death if only I knew he forgives me for what I’ve said…what I’ve done…how I’ve…hurt him.”
The stranger sighed too. “So much like your father you sound. I cannot give you your eyesight, but have faith when I say that a man without eyes can see in other ways. Ask about your kinsman Phaedr. They will tell you. You will find a path, your future will unfold, if you keep faith and do not succumb to the despair of surrender. Your father will know your thoughts; I will relay them when I leave you, but be assured, you shall have him with you soon.”
A sliver of light returned to Dhóri’s demeanor for the first time in months, his face tilted towards the voice of the man at his bedside. “He is coming home?” How anyone could be certain of that, he did not know, but he wanted to believe that morsel of good news.
“Believe in his words, phyl kyag; trust in his promise and do not despair. You have my word he will be with you again.”
Though unconvinced that the Yellow Sisters would pass him over, Dhóri chose to cling to the man’s words. Die or live, he would be with his father. That gave him hope, even as he realized he was alone again. Alone, without the sound of retreating footsteps.
He touched the place on his forehead where lips had grazed him. Things the man had said, taking Dhóri’s words to Kavan when he departed. Prophetic words of hope. He shivered, remembering tales that his father had shared, tales of the Heretic-Saint who was said to come to him in his times of need.
But Dhóri was not his father. This was impossible. It could not be.
“Master Dhóri?”
The young man blinked, weary but at least not coughing, and turned his head towards the new voice, one he happily recognized. “Did you see him? Did you pass him in the corridor?”
“Who?” Níkóá glanced behind him into the short empty hall towards the kitchen beyond that. “Rhyrdan? Shall I get him for you?”
He had already spoken to the acting steward, his sister, and Healer Delamo, learning of the grim losses that had overcome Alberni as they had Rhidam. Having come from St. Kóráhm’s with verification of the thief’s face, where the dead outnumbered the living, he learned that a holy relic, if that was indeed what it was, had been delivered as claimed. He wanted to open the bundle, see it himself, but Khwílen would not permit it, insisting that, whatever it was, it was for Kavan to discover.
Níkóá had to trust that this delivered relic and the stolen mantle were the same thing. That the courier and the thief were the same man. Without proof, he did not think the inquisitors would believe it.
Now he had come to the manor, to see to Dhóri’s condition before returning to Rhidam. Rhyrdan continued to cling to hope and prayer that his brother would survive but the women of the house were less inclined to hope. Having seen the brutal effects of both versions of plague, believing that Yóáná knew what she spoke of, Níkóá would never forgive himself if he did not call on Kavan’s son one last time.
There should have been more he could have done. There should be more he could do now.
“Not Rhyrdan.” Dhóri shook his head. They would think him mad with fever if he tried to explain what he believed to be true. “It is nothing; I thought…” The edge of the pallet sank as the older man settled beside him. “Maybe I was dreaming.”
Hallucinations were common amongst the ailing. Níkóá had few doubts that Dhóri’s mind was filled with a host of peculiar images.
Having tended his share of the sick and dying, however, it was noteworthy that Dhóri had the strength to sit, to converse in a strong voice without gasping, choking, or coughing. Yóáná had prepared him for the worst but the evidence of his eyes revealed an illogical sight he had to touch to believe.
“How do you feel?” he asked, taking the young man’s face between his hands to tenderly kiss his forehead. Though Dhóri winced as many of the dying did, their skin sensitive to the slightest touch or sensation, it seemed his pain was minor, the action more a reflex of expecting pain than of pain itself.
“That doesn’t hurt,” Dhóri whispered, fear creeping into his voice. Every time anyone touched him, Yóáná or Emeria or Rhyrdan, there was the sting of bursting boils or the ache of tender muscles and skin unable to easily tolerate the burn of screaming nerves. That he could not feel it now frightened him. The stranger’s kiss had likewise not hurt. Did it mean his body had endured all that it could and was on the verge of shutting down? Had his visitor lied to him?
“Let me fetch Yóáná…”
Grabbing Níkóá’s arm with a strength he had not felt in too many days, Dhóri begged, “Please. Don’t leave me. I don’t want to die alone.” He must be dreaming. The stranger had promised he would live to see his father and yet everything felt wrong.
“Dhóri, all will be well. You are…Yóáná should see this.”
“What? See what? Níkóá, tell me!”
The increasing volume and pitch of his voice brought the healer from the kitchen where she aided Emeria. As she entered the room, fearing her hysterical patient was mad with pain, she made a hasty visual evaluation of his condition. By the time she reached his bedside, she was prepared for what she needed to do. No assessment was possible until she circumvented his panic and so, thanks to both Kavan and Ártur’s training, she caught Dhóri’s face between her hands just as Níkóá had done, whispered, “Sleep, átaelás mai,” and helped him slump back onto the sticky wet bedding.
“He spoke of someone here,” said Níkóá, his spirit vacillating between shock and worry. “Do you think…was Kavan here?”
Níkóá had not sensed the bard, had sensed nothing in the room when he entered, but if anyone could mask themselves from detection, Kavan could. But why would he do so? Why had he not stayed?
Yóáná did not reply as every healing sense pushed through Dhóri, seeking different answers. There was fluid in his lungs still, weakness in his long-unused muscles, but the swelling in the nerves and tissues behind his eyes had diminished. As with his now unblemished skin, warm but with far less fever than before, it appeared that many of the symptoms of illness had retreated within the span of a few hours.
“It cannot be.” Emeria and Laney were recovering, but slowly, and their skin would forever bear the blemishes left by the Yellow Sisters. It was too soon to say how much of their strength would return and whether there were any other complications ahead for them. Their recovery had begun a week ago and Yóáná knew there would be another week or more before that recovery was complete. Anything as abrupt as what Dhóri displayed could only be accredited to a miracle…and there was only one man in the Sovereignties said to perform miracles. Níkóá’s suggestion that Kavan had returned long enough to save his son was the only explanation that made sense, yet even that was unbelievable.
“Move him.” She indicated an empty pallet with clean bedding. If he was cured, or recovering, she could not allow him to sleep in his own filth and risk reinfection. She should move him out of this room until it was thoroughly scoured, but she did not dare risk spreading the Yellow Death if this change was some new twist in its effects. “I’ll bring water, we’ll bathe him, burn the bedding. Someone will remain with him until he wakes.”
“I will.” The duty to the prince-regent, bringing back the news gleaned from St. Kóráhm’s, was less important now that Dhóri seemed to be remarkably, unexpectedly, recovering. If Kavan had been here, might return at any moment, duty in Rhidam would keep until Níkóá was reassured that his evaluation of this miracle was accurate.
In his sleep, Dhóri turned his head towards the door as Níkóá placed him on a different pallet and covered him with a light sheet. “Kóráhm,” he whispered without opening his eyes.
In the doorway, Yóáná stared at Níkóá and he stared back, both thinking the same thoughts.
Not Kavan…but Kóráhm?
It could not be so.
And yet, perhaps, it was.
***
He should have left as soon as his duty was complete. The mantle was safe in the hands of the gdhededhá of St. Kóráhm’s and with the Yellow Death sweeping through Alberni like an uncontained fire, remaining had not been the wisest choice Myreth could make. But as it seemed the man following him had ceased doing so as soon as the relic passed out of his hands, Myreth felt less threatened and the hope that Kavan might soon return caused him to remain close to the place the beloved man called home.
He scoured empty residences and businesses for traces of edible food and gave them to any of the living he found, so long as they appeared healthy enough to consume it, saving only a little for himself each day. He was hungry, but this was not his first experience with lean times. It seemed more important to keep Kavan’s people alive than to horde food for himself.
After everything Kavan had given him, it was a small price to offer in repayment.
At night he slept near the chellé, watching its gates but not daring to seek shelter within, even when the rain soaked him. He was there, having come from his latest foraging efforts, when the stranger emerged from St. Kóráhm’s. If he had entered through the gate, he had done so when Myreth had not been here.
