Rietta's nose lifted in the air. 'I don't care to speak further of such hideous things at the dinner table.'
Bram laughed. 'Which of us won't be at the dinner table tomorrow?' He shrugged carelessly and fell against the back of his chair. 'It's impossible to predict.'
Rietta gasped, a hand pressed to her lips. 'We're all fine at Castle DiThon. The disease doesn't exist here.'
'Yet.'
She looked at her son with annoyance. 'You've been moody and distracted since you returned from that cotter's.'
Bram flushed, his gaze fastened to his soup bowl. Since Nahamkin's death the night before, he had thought of nothing but the snakes who had hissed his Uncle Guerrand's name.
'Why have you taken so much of the burden of this illness on yourself, Bram?' his mother pressed. 'You aren't responsible for the cause or cure of this affliction.'
'I'm not so sure of that.' Still, Bram held in the secret. 'I remember a day when a lord's primary responsibility was the welfare of his subjects.'
'Is that what this is about?' she demanded. 'You think I should expose myself to illness just to help some peasants? Well, I won't do it! Mark my words,' Rietta continued, 'this plague is heavenly retribution against the villagers for their lazy and dissolute ways. It can be no accident that it hasn't struck here yet.'
Bram's temper exploded. 'You've practically sealed
off the castle, that's why!'
Rietta's thin shoulders lifted dismissively. 'We lead virtuous, worthwhile lives.'
Bram laughed without humor. 'Do you really believe we DiThons are anything but blue-blooded peasants?' He waved his hands at the squalor in the refectory. Bram couldn't help reflecting that, in many ways, Nahamkin's drafty hovel was more appealing. At least it had a surplus of straight candles.
Rietta frowned darkly at her son. 'I didn't raise you to speak to me this way,' she said. 'You are not so old, nor have we sunk so far, that I'll allow it now.' Her tone, meant more to inspire guilt than fear, had been rehearsed to perfection on Bram his entire lifetime.
'The cause of this curse is obvious.'
Both Bram and Rietta turned in surprise to look at Cormac, alone in shadow at the far end of the long table. The tall man's head was slumped onto his barrel- shaped chest as usual. Even in the dark Bram could see his father's red-veined nose and that his clothing was way too small for his obese trunk. At least his words weren't slurred, which suggested Cormac had gone easier on the watered-down bottle he usually nursed.
'Who said anything about a curse?' demanded Rietta. 'You haven't left the castle walls in four years, Cormac. What could you possibly know about this illness-or anything, for that matter?'
Bram had long since stopped wincing when his mother sliced into his father like this. When he was young, his parents had always bickered. Bram had accepted early on that there was no love lost between them, had seen it as the way of things. But all the bluster had been knocked out of Cormac. Rietta's spiteful remarks, or even Bram's own thoughtful comments, usually went unnoticed.
'Did you have something to add, Father?' Bram prodded gently.
Cormac's glazed expression suggested he hadn't heard the words as much as their cadence. 'We have not seen the likes of such upheaval since there was magic in this house. There is vile sorcery at work here, there can be no doubt.'
Bram froze. Had Cormac heard a rumor about what the snakes hissed before death?
Rietta threw herself back in her chair. 'It always comes back to magic with you, doesn't it, Cormac?'
'That was the start of it all,' rumbled Cormac.
'Seven years, and you're still blaming him for your mistakes,' she sighed, rolling her eyes. 'Everyone knows there was no love lost between Guerrand and me, but-'
'Don't speak that traitor's name!' spat Cormac. 'We were doing fine before he brought his sorcery into our lives.'
'Fine?' Rietta shrieked. 'You'd already spent us into poverty. Frankly, this whole situation is your fault, Cormac,' she said. 'Bram would be safely away in Solamnia if you hadn't squandered the money we needed to squire him to a true knight.'
'Don't you understand, woman?' roared Cormac. 'There would be no plague upon our heads if my brother hadn't brought magic into this village, this house. We would not be living in poverty if that bastard had done his familial duty as he'd promised. Instead he lost us the Berwick money and Stonecliff in one fell swoop.' Cormac's hammy fist slammed the table. 'Mark my words, when so many people die of mysterious causes, there's vile magic involved.'
'Father is right.' Bram's voice was barely above a whisper. 'I've seen for myself that magic has caused this illness. And I fear Uncle Guerrand is somehow responsible.' He recounted the last moments of
Nahamkin's life, concluding with the snakes hissing Guerrand's name.
'But why?' she asked. 'Why would Guerrand do something so cruel to us after all this time?'
'I don't know,' Bram confessed. 'But I intend to find out.'
'I'll tell you why,' snarled Cormac. 'Because Guerrand is a contemptible black-hearted wizard, like all his kindred. That's reason enough.'
Rietta's head was shaking slowly in disbelief. 'Surely Guerrand is dead after all these years,' she breathed. But she had already seen in her son's eyes the interest her husband's words had stirred. Growing alarmed, she took up Bram's hand and squeezed it. 'You know I am not the opponent of magic your father is, but you can't possibly be taking Cormac's ravings seriously now, Bram. He hasn't said anything worth listening to in years.'
'Father only confirmed what I already knew,' Bram said. 'I've realized since Nahamkin's death that I would have to leave to find Guerrand. If I can't persuade him to use his magic to stop this sickness, we'll all die.'
'You think he'll do it just because you ask him to?' Rietta scoffed. 'You don't remember Guerrand as I do, Bram. He was not even willing to marry for the sake of the family! And if he's not to blame for spreading this sickness, I assure you he won't risk getting the plague to save any of us.'
'Nevertheless,' said Bram, standing, 'I feel a lord's responsibility, even if you and father don't. It may have escaped your notice, but I have been working too hard for five years to restore Castle DiThon's productivity to sit by and do nothing while people suffer. I wouldn't care to look beyond DiThon's walls one day and find we're all alone.'
'Sometimes I think that would not be such a bad thing,' his mother mused distantly. She knew she had lost the argument. 'When will you leave?'
'Soon. I need to talk to Kirah first. She might have some idea where Guerrand went.'
'You know, of course, that once you leave, you'll not be welcome at Castle DiThon again,' his mother said softly. 'I cannot risk exposing everyone here to plague for some folly of yours.'
Bram saw the manipulation for what it was. Rietta had done the same thing to Kirah when she refused to marry. It was not a typical mother's concern that drove her to these ultimatums. Rietta simply abhorred anyone disrupting the fabric of her life, however threadbare the weave, whatever the cost in others' lives. Like the briefest fluttering of wings, the last glowing coal of tolerant affection for her winked to black in his breast.
'Do what you must,' Bram said coldly. He bowed his head formally and backed toward the door. He looked first to Cormac in the shadows. 'Good-bye, Father.' He locked his determined gaze on Rietta. 'Good-bye, Mother. I wish you long life in this self-imposed prison.' With that, he slipped from the refectory.
'Bram!' his mother cried, and her hand flew to her mouth. '1 didn't mean-' She sprang to her feet, but instead of following her son, Rietta descended upon her husband at the far end of the table, fists flying. 'Damn you, Cormac, for putting the notion in his head! You knew he would feel obligated to do whatever he could to help those miserable peasants!'
Bram couldn't hear his mother's ranting turn to sobs, or see the small, triumphant smile that pulled at his father's lips.
Chapter Eight
