and the joy of her condition made her radiant. The first signs of problems began on a bright afternoon as they sat in the garden, overlooking the marble pool and the tall fountain. Sweat was gleaming on her pale features, and Skilgannon suggested they move to the shade. She had leaned heavily on him, then groaned. He had swept her into his arms and carried her inside, laying her down on a long couch. Her face had taken on a waxy sheen. She reached up and pressed her fingers into her armpit. ‘So painful,’ she said. Opening her dress he saw the skin of her left armpit was swollen and bruised. It seemed as if a large cyst was forming.
Lifting her once more he carried her upstairs to the main bedroom, and helped her undress. Then he sent for the surgeon.
The fever had begun swiftly. By the late afternoon large purple swellings had appeared in her armpits and groin. The surgeon arrived just before dusk. Skilgannon would never forget the man’s reaction when he examined Dayan. Full of quiet confidence, shrewd and resourceful, he had stepped inside the room and bowed to Skilgannon. Then he had walked to the bedside and drawn back the covers. It was in that moment that Skilgannon knew the worst. The surgeon had blanched, and taken an involuntary step backwards. All confidence fled from him. He continued to back away towards the door. Skilgannon grabbed him. ‘What is it? What is the matter with you?’
The Black Plague. She has the Black Plague.’
Pulling himself free of the shocked Skilgannon the surgeon had fled the palace. The servants had followed within hours. Skilgannon sat beside the delirious Dayan, placing water-cooled towels on her feverish body. He did not know what else to do.
Towards dawn one of the huge purple swellings under her arm burst.
For a time her fever dropped, and she awoke. Skilgannon cleaned away the pus and the blood, and covered her with a fresh sheet of white satin. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her, stroking the sweat-drenched blond hair back from her brow.
‘A little better. Thirsty.’ He helped her drink. Then she sagged back to the pillow. ‘Am I dying, Olek?’
‘No. I will not allow it,’ he said, forcing a lightness of tone he did not feel.
‘Do you love me?’
‘Who could not, Dayan? All who meet you are enchanted by you.’ It was true. He had never known anyone of such gentle disposition. There was no malice in Dayan, no hatred. She even treated the servants as friends, and chatted with them as equals. Her laughter was infectious, and lifted the spirits of all who heard it.
‘I wish we had met before you knew her,’ she said. Skilgannon’s heart sank. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I have tried not to be jealous, Olek.
But I cannot help it. It is hard when you love someone with all your heart, and yet you know they love another.’
He did not know how to answer her, and sat quietly, holding her hand.
Finally he said: ‘You are a finer woman than she can ever be, Dayan. In every way.’
‘But you regret marrying me.’
‘No! You are my wife, Dayan. You and I together.’ He sighed. ‘Until death.’
‘Oh, Olek. Do you mean that?’
‘With all my heart.’ She squeezed his hand, and closed her eyes. He sat with her through the dawn, and into the day. She awoke again towards dusk. The fever had returned and she cried out in pain. Once more he bathed her face and body, trying to reduce the inflammation. Her beautiful face took on a sunken look, and her eyes were dark-rimmed. A second swelling burst at her groin, staining the sheet. As night came on Skilgannon felt a dryness in his throat, and sweat began to drip from his brow into his eyes. He felt tenderness in his armpits. Gently he probed the area. Already the swellings had begun. Dayan sighed, then took a deep breath. ‘I think it is passing, Olek. The pain is fading.’
‘That is good.’
‘You look tired, my love. You should get some rest.’
‘I am fine.’
‘I have good news,’ she said, with a smile, ‘though now is probably not the time to share it. I was hoping to be sitting in the garden with you, watching the sunset.’
‘This is a fine time for good news.’ Skilgannon tried to drink some water, but his throat was swollen and inflamed, and it was difficult to swallow.
‘Sorai cast the runes for me. It will be a boy. Your son. Are you happy?’
It was as if a white hot iron had been plunged into his heart. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very happy.’
‘I hoped you would be.’ She was silent for a while, and when she spoke next the delirium had returned. She talked of lunching with her father, and what a fine time they had had. ‘He bought me a necklace in the market. Green stones. Let me show you.’ She struggled to sit up.
‘I have seen it. It is very pretty. Rest, Dayan.’
‘Oh, I am not tired, Olek. Can we go for a walk in the garden?’
‘In a little while.’
She chattered on, and then, in mid-sentence, stopped. At first he thought she was sleeping, but her face was utterly still. Reaching out, he gently pressed her throat. There was no pulse. A searing pain lanced his belly and he doubled over. After a while it passed. He gazed down at Dayan, then lay down beside her, drawing her into an embrace. ‘I did not choose to fall in love with Jianna,’ he said. ‘If I could have chosen it would have been you. You are everything a man could desire, Dayan. You deserved better than me.’
He lay there for some hours, as the fever grew. Finally delirium took him. He tried to fight it, forcing himself from the bed and falling to the floor. Then he had staggered to the gardens, and out into the meadows beyond.
Skilgannon remembered little of what followed, save that he had tumbled down a steep incline, then crawled towards a distant building. He seemed to recall voices, and then gentle hands lifting him.
He had awoken to a silent room in a church hospital. His bed was beside a window, and through that window he saw a cloudless sky, rich and blue. A white bird had glided across his field of vision. In that moment everything froze and Skilgannon experienced… what? He still did not know. For a single heartbeat he had felt something akin to perfection, as if he and the bird, and the sky, and the room were somehow one and bathed in the love of the universe. Then it passed and the pain returned. Not just the physical pain from the huge, lanced cysts and the terrible toll they had taken on his body, but the agony of loss as he remembered that Dayan was gone from the world, no longer to hold his hand, or to kiss his lips. No more to lie beside him on still summer evenings, her hand stroking his face.
Despair clung to his heart like a raven.
A young priest visited him on that first day and sat at his bedside. ‘You are a lucky man, general. Aye, and a tough one. By all rights you should be dead. I have never seen any man fight off the plague as you did. At one point your heart was pounding so fast it was beyond my ability to keep count.’
‘Was the plague contained to our area?’
‘No, sir. It is sweeping through the kingdom and beyond. The death toll will be awesome.’
‘The revenge of the Source for our sins,’ said Skilgannon.
The priest shook his head. ‘We do not believe in a god of revenge, sir.
The plague was spread by man’s error and greed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In the northeast there is a tribe, the Kolear. You have heard of them?’
‘Kin to the Nadir and the Chiatze. They are nomads.’
‘Indeed, sir. One of their customs is that if they see a dead marmot -
small furry creatures that live in the lowlands — they move on. According to their beliefs the marmots contain the souls of Kolear wise men. That is why the Kolear do not hunt the creatures. A dead marmot is seen as a sign that the wise spirits have moved away and that the tribe should seek fresh pastures. During the war many of the Kolear sided with the Queen’s enemies, and were driven from their lands, or slain. Other non-Kolear residents moved in. They saw the marmots and decided to trap them for their fur. It is good fur. What they did not realize was that the marmots carried the seeds of a plague. At first the hunters and trappers fell sick.
Then their families. Then travellers and merchants who bought the fur.
