He raised her hand to his lips, bestowing a gentle kiss on her fingers. He stood and laid her hand under the covers, tucking them beneath her chin. He ran his fingers through her hair, then turned to Thordin.
"Let us go comfort the town council," he said.
Thordin smiled. "We always do a lot of hand-holding in this job."
Jonathan just nodded. He glanced back at Tereza as Thordin shut the door. She looked very pale in the lamplight. She had lost so much blood, but not as much as Averil. He glanced at the door across the hall.
Silvanus stood vigil over his daughter. If she survived until dawn, the doctor thought Averil would live. If she survived.
They had been told there was a plague of the dead, but there were hundreds of zombies in the streets, more than could have died this winter. Cort-ton was not that large a village. Where had all the dead sprung from? A question he intended to ask the council.
The town council consisted of the innkeeper, the meistersinger, and the undertaker. The innkeeper, Belinna, was the woman who had thrown oil on the zombies. She was tall and wide, but not fat. Fat implied softness, indulgence. Her brawn was solid, what some would call big boned. Her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. The boy that had held the torch was her eldest son. He stood by her side now-tall, slender, dark, but his harsh, watching eyes were mirrored in Belinna's.
The meistersinger, Simon LeBec, had been a well-known bard in his younger days. Jonathan had heard him sing once, perhaps thirty years ago. He had been the handsome darling of all the ladies then. His hair was white as snow now, his face lined. Only his eyes remained the same-piercing blue.
Jonathan did not try to remind LeBec that they had met thirty years ago. He had not been known as a mage-finder then. He had been simply Jonathan Ambrose, a wandering adventurer who happened to specialize in slaying wizards. He hadn't had the law behind him then, and was almost an outlaw. Jonathan remembered the surety of purpose he had, like a shield that could not be pierced. No doubts.
He stood, staring at their worried faces, watching the strain fade just a little simply because he was there. It was obscene that they had such confidence in him.
The undertaker, Marland Ashe, was a tall, thin man. His milk-pale skin and violet-blue eyes were typical of the natives in this area of Kartakass. The combination was startling, lovely, but some disease had pock-marked his cheeks until the skin was rough as gravel. The spoiled skin seemed odd below those large, beautiful eyes.
The three of them sat behind a long table in the common room of the inn. There were only a few servants. Jonathan and his companions were the only guests. Visitors did not come to a cursed village. If they happened in by accident, they hurried away before nightfall. If they happened to come after dark. . well, Jonathan had seen what happened then. They died.
"What is it you want of me tonight, councilors?" His voice was polite. Jonathan was surprised that he sounded so businesslike, almost pleasant. His voice was such a lie. It gave no hint of the anguish inside his heart and head.
"We need to know what you plan to do to help us," LeBec said. The meistersinger's face was calm enough, his folded hands very still on the table before him. Too still. The effort he was making to appear calm showed in his shoulders, arms, even the still hands.
Jonathan fought an urge to laugh in his face. What could they do? They had ridden into town and been nearly wiped out. They had been unprepared for what met them.
"Your messenger told us that a third of your town had died from some evil plague. He further told us that they had risen as undead and walked the streets. There are hundreds of dead out there. Where did they all come from?
The meistersinger glanced at the undertaker. Ashe spoke, "The village graveyard has been emptied. Cortton was once a much larger village, a town. The graveyard held more dead than the town holds living."
"If we had been told there were hundreds of dead here, we wouldn't have ridden into Cortton after dark."
The innkeeper shifted in her seat. "We did not think it mattered. You are the mage-finder. You defeated the vermin plague of Deccan. Surely there were more of them than there are of our dead."
"You shouldn't believe everything the bards tell you," Jonathan said.
LeBec looked down at the table, studying his hands. He glanced up at Jonathan's face and held his gaze. "I know that some of my brethren exaggerate, but not that much. We truly thought you would be safe, riding straight to the inn."
"Did you really? Then why did no one open the door? The women that lie upstairs might have been saved their injuries if the door had opened sooner."
None of them could meet his eyes. Anger flared through him in a rush that almost burned along his skin. He opened his mouth to say what he thought of them all, but a voice interrupted.
"They were afraid, mage-finder."
Jonathan turned to see Harkon Lukas leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed carelessly over his chest, and a mocking smile curled his lips. He was dressed in a wine-dark burgundy tunic, and pants trimmed in black velvet. His burgundy hat boasted no less than three black plumes. His monocle caught the lamplight, winking at them.
"And I resent the defaming statements against my profession. I assure you I sing only the truth."
"You saved our lives tonight. For that I am grateful."
Lukas pushed away from the wall, striding toward them. He waved the gratitude away. "It seemed silly to let the savior of the village die in the street."
"We could hear the dead outside the door," Belinna said. "We feared they would force their way in and kill us all. All who have died since the plague began have risen to haunt the night. A clean death I would have risked." She touched her son's arm. "But this walking death …" She shook her head. "It is a different thing to risk."
Jonathan could not argue with that. "I thought only those that died of plague rose from the dead."
She shook her head. "All."
"That is odd. If the plague was a spell, only plague victims should rise from the dead."
"What does it mean that all dead walk?" LeBec asked.
"Perhaps the plague is not a spell, or not all of it."
"I don't understand what you are implying," LeBec said.
Jonathan shook his head. He wasn't sure he could explain it yet. It was merely the seed of an idea, not ready to see the light of day yet. Certainly not ready to be explained to a group of nervous strangers.
"I wish to gather more evidence before I speak." It was a standard stalling tactic. The three councilors nodded and murmured, as if he had said something clever.
"Of course," LeBec said, "we understand. Accusations of black magic are not lightly made."
Jonathan said nothing. He had found that a stern face and silence often did better than words. Especially if you had nothing to say.
"Do you think you have the answer to Cortton's little problem so soon?" Harkon Lukas stood in front of Jonathan, hands on slender hips. He was a tall, strong-looking man, but there was something feminine about him, a grace that was closer to a dancer's movements than a bard's. There was a sparkle in his dark eyes that said he suspected Jonathan of bluffing.
Jonathan almost smiled, but managed to swallow it. He gave a solemn nod of his head. "I have some suspicions."
"Care to share them?"
Jonathan shook his head, silent. He couldn't keep the smile hidden. Only Harkon Lukas saw it. The bard cocked his head to one side, staring at Jonathan. An expression passed over his face that Jonathan could not read.
"Remind me never to play cards with you, mage-finder. You have the proverbial poker face."
"I don't have much time for playing games."