But she did not. Just before dawn on the fifth day of her burning fever and hacking cough, when Melongel and Clostan had joined the vigil, she opened her eyes, smiled at Robinton leaning over her and, with a sigh, closed them. And was still.
"No, no. No. No. Kasia. You can't leave me alone."
He was shaking her, trying to rouse her, when he felt Juvana's hands pulling him away. He clutched Kasia to him, stroking her hair, her cheeks, trying to coax life back into her body.
It took Melongel and Clostan to pull him away from her, while Juvana arranged her on the bed. And Clostan forced a potion down his throat.
"We did all we could, Rob, all we could. It's just sometimes not enough." And Robinton heard the pain of the healer as plainly as he felt his own.
Captain Gostol sailed the Northern Maid with just Vesna and two others to man her – his crew was also decimated by the fever.
It was Merelan who sang the final farewell, for Robinton couldn't speak. But he did play the harp he had so lovingly made his spouse. And when Merelan held the last note until it died away – as his hope had – he flung the harp to join the body of his beloved as it slipped into the sea. The harp gave one last dissonant chord as the wind of its descent strummed the strings. Then all was silent.
Even the wind died down in respect for his loss.
He moved his things back into his bachelor room. Ifor and Mumolon did all they could to bear him company, see that he ate, make him lie down in his bed – for he could seem to do nothing at all. "Got in, get out ..." The refrain haunted him, but he had not the energy to make notations. He felt he could never sing, or compose, again. He tried to rouse himself from this immolation in grief, his terrible loss, but all he seemed to do was sink deeper.
Days later, he was sprawled in front of the fire, Ifor and Mumolon having gone elsewhere – either because they had duties or because they could no longer stand to be with him and his grief.
The door swung open and F'lon stood there, staring at him.
Robinton looked up incuriously, noted that the dragonrider was here, and then stared back at the fire.
"I only just heard," said F'lon, striding into the room and slamming the door behind him. He picked up what was left of the bottle of wine and poured it into a glass, tossing it back. Td've come earlier if I'd known."
Robinton nodded. F'lon peered more closely into his face.
"Say, you really are in a terrible state, aren't you?"
Robinton didn't dignify the question with an answer, waving a hand to send F'lon on his way. He appreciated the dragonrider coming, but F'lon only reminded him of the last time he had seen him: on his espousal day.
"That bad, huh?" F'lon looked around him for more wine.
"Drunk it all up?"
"Drinking doesn't help."
"No. It doesn't."
Something in F'lon's tone roused Robinton briefly. "What do you mean?"
"Isn't there any more wine up here? Do I have to go back downstairs to get some?"
F'lon was angry, which annoyed Robinton, so he pointed to the cupboard. "There should be one more there," he said.
"You've been counting?"
Robinton shrugged and sighed. He watched indifferently as F'lon found the skin, made a disgusted noise as he read the label, but pulled the bung and poured a glass for himself. Then he splashed more into Robinton's cup.
"You're not the only one grieving, but at least you're entitled," he said after taking half the glass.
"Oh?"
"L'tol – or should I now call him Lytol – lost Larth. Just about the time Kasia ..." And even brash F'lon could not continue. He downed the rest of that glass and poured another, right to the brim.
"L'tol? Lost Larth?" That much penetrated.
"Yes, and he shouldn't have." F'lon slammed the glass down on the table so hard that it broke at the stem. He cursed as the glass cut into the web of finger and thumb, and sucked it.
"How?" Robinton asked. Dragons seldom died in an Interval.
"C'vrel decided we should straighten up and get in some firestone practice," F'lon said in a sarcastic tone. "We'd fly wing against wing. M'ridin's Spakinth came out of between flaming and caught Larth all along his side. There were enough of us in the air to cushion Larth back to earth, screaming his head off."
F'lon gave himself a sudden shake as if the memory of that agony was etched in his mind. "L'tol fell off and the weyrfolk grabbed him, but larth was too badly burned. He went between right there on the ground."
Robinton saw the tears coursing down the dragonrider's cheeks. He reached out to lay his hand on F'lon's arm, unable to bear his friend's pain.
F'lon brushed him aside. "You aren't the only one bearing a terrible loss right now."
"No, I'm not. But I don't seem to be able to bear it either."
"No, you don't. If you want, you can go too."
"Go, too?" Robinton looked up at F'lon. "What do you mean?"
"Couldn't be simpler," the dragonrider said drolly. "We go out to Simanith, he takes you in his arms, we go between and Simanith opens his arms' – which F'lon demonstrated with an upward flourish – "and only the two of us go on to Benden. Simple."
"Yes, simple," Robinton agreed, thinking almost wistfully of the cold black nothingness of between where one felt nothing, heard nothing, was shortly nothing.
Tears filled his eyes and his heart seemed to burst. He'd been cold so long now. It would be simple ... but ... it wasn't simple.
"No, it isn't simple," F'lon said gently, and Robinton realized he had spoken aloud. "There's something in us humans that clings to life even when the most beloved one we have leaves us. Lytol couldn't go when we gave him the option. He was badly burned, and too full of fellis and numbweed to be able to decide. And when he could, he decided to go back to High Reaches with his family."
Robinton gave a start. "That's not a wise place for anyone to be right now, I think. Much less a... former dragonrider."
F'lon shrugged. "His choice. He needs his family right now. I saw your mother is still here."
"Yes, she's been wonderful. Everyone has."
"So, let's get on with life, shall we?" The kindness in that soft gentle suggestion reached and thawed the cold "nothingness" Robinton had been enduring.
"Thank you, F'lon," he said and rose. "I think I'd better eat something, and you look as if you could stand a good meal too."
Indeed, F'lon looked haggard as well as weary, but at Robinton's suggestion his smile flickered. Stretching an arm across the harper's shoulder, he wheeled him to face the door and then accompanied him out of the room and down to the warm kitchen to ask for a meal.
It was ironic that the grip of terrible weather broke shortly afterwards, and milder weather not only improved those who had been stricken by the feverish cough but also allowed everyone's normal duties to be resumed.
Living in Tillek Hold was hard on Robinton for it was filled with memories: one moment he would think he saw Kasia, just turning that corridor; the next, he would hear the echo of her voice in the room. Still numb with his grief, he tried very hard to overcome it with work and just living.
He briefly roused when Minnarden and Melongel told him that they had proof now of Lord Faroguy's death. "We asked for confirmation of Faroguy's well-being," Melongel said. "Gave the inaccuracy of the last message as our excuse."
"The one that came back was nearly as badly drummed as the first, and all the Towers asked for several repeats to be sure they had heard it correctly before passing it along," Minnarden said.
Then he shook his head. "Lobira never sent so badly formed a message. And Mallan was always good at drumming."
"So we sent ... a friend." Melongel paused to nod significantly at Robinton. "A runner who keeps his eyes and ears open in the course of his duties. His report has disturbed us all." By "all," Robinton knew that Melongel meant the Lord Holders.