Bram crept silently down the second-floor hallway, past the door to the study where his father spent most of his time in an irrational stupor caused by years of drunkenness. Bram was headed for the gallery, which sported windows that faced the afternoon sun across the Strait of Ergoth. The expensive glass had been added to the long, narrow, third-story balcony several generations before, in the time of Bram's greatgrandfather, when the family had been able to afford more than carrots for the table and the village had supported craftsmen of quality.
Gildee the cook (one of the few servants who remained, primarily because she had nowhere else to go), found Bram on the staircase to the third floor. "Someone from the village came running for you, Master Bram." The matronly woman's solemn tone and distressed expression told him the disease had struck a second time. Her words stopped his heart. "It's Nahamkin. He's got the fever."
Bram blinked at her in disbelief for just one moment, then sprang down the steps two at a time, stopping neither for herbs nor cloak. He was racing across the worn floor of the foyer when his mother's voice stopped him.
"Where are you going in such a hurry, Bram?" Rietta's words were light, but her tone was high, clipped as she strode into the circular foyer. The ragged hem of her cheap brocatelle dress, more gray now than lavender from repeated washings with lye soap, whispered across the stone floor.
In her midforties, Rietta had aged with the grace of the nobly born. Her skin was still remarkably wrinkle- free, though her shape was thinner than ever, thanks to a scarcity of high-quality food, and the worry over it. As always, she wore her dark, thin hair in a tight chignon covered by a strong veil of lace netting, and a long gorget around her neck.
Bram's mother settled light fingers on his arm.
"Mother," he breathed turning away, "I-I've got to go to the village." His eyes were on the door that led out. Unconsciously he began to pull away from her.
"I have need of you here," she said stiffly, too quickly.
He whirled around. "For what? Retrieving winter squash from the root cellar?"
Rietta's green, feline eyes narrowed, and her thin lips pouted at the sarcasm. "I just don't see why you have to go to the village again."
"It's Nahamkin, Mother," Bram said with forced patience, feeling the weight of time passing in the strained muscles of his neck. "He's ill."
"That old farmer?" she scoffed. "Aren't there family members who can tend to him? What about Herus?"
"Perhaps they could," conceded Bram, "but Nahamkin has asked for me. I've got to try to help him." He had no tolerance for her haughty attitude at this moment, which was why he couldn't help adding slyly, "Just be thankful that the villagers no longer expect the lady of the manor to tend their ills, as in days past."
Oblivious to his derision, Rietta bit her bottom lip until it was white, her brows furrowed with concern.
Is it that dreadful fever the miller had? I've heard Herus has returned and is treating him still."
"I don't know," Bram said, lying outright to give his mother hope as much as to gain his freedom. "I won't know until I see Nahamkin." He tugged his arm back gently, then put one hand unceremoniously against the small of her back to propel her along. "I've got to go now, Mother. I may not be back for several days." Uncharacteristically, Rietta resisted only briefly before bowing her head and retreating down the hallway that ied to the kitchens.
Bram bolted through the door and began the three- rod sprint to Nahamkin's tumbledown cottage.
Bram crouched in the cold and drafty loft, next to the cot that held the friend he knew must surely be dying.
The fever had passed two nights before, because of, or despite, Bram's herbal tea. It seemed to comfort Nahamkin, and that was reason enough for Bram to climb the rickety ladder to the loft four times an hour, round the clock, to bring more heated water from the hearth.
The young nobleman had tried to remain optimistic, to pretend even, that Nahamkin had a simple fever. Superstition-or perhaps premonition-had made him change the herbal mixture he'd given the miller to one designed to encourage and not break fever. But Bram's hope had faded when the old farmer's sweats and chills ceased abruptly and unexplainably on the evening of the first day, as Hoark Sivesten's had. It was a bad sign.
Bram understood how bad it was when, later that same night, the village bells chimed, signaling the miller's death.
Knowing what was ahead, Bram had sent for Nahamkin's family the next morning. Delayed by farm chores, or so he said, the son had arrived alone much later. Bram peered briefly over the edge of the loft to see Nahamkin's son standing in the doorway, obviously reluctant to enter the cottage. His eyes had darted everywhere and nowhere, as if he were afraid of what he'd see if they settled.
Bram had neither the time nor the patience to leave the loft to coax Nahamkin's own flesh and blood to see him one last time. The old man was halfway through the skin-shedding stage of the disease, and Bram had to call on all his strength just to keep his friend on the cot. When the first skin split on his leg, Nahamkin had brayed, and Bram heard the door slam shut below.
The nobleman paused for a moment, eyes closed, and reflected that blood wasn't any thicker in families where it wasn't blue. If Nahamkin knew his son had run away, he didn't mention it. Bram suspected that, inside, Nahamkin had known at the onset of the fever that his son wouldn't stand by him, since he'd sent for Bram.
Following the pattern of the illness, Nahamkin was quiet, lucid even, on the evening of the second day after the skin shedding. Bram brought stew up to the loft, though neither of them did much more than push the potatoes around in their bowls. They talked about flowers, and slugs, and summer heat, anything but what was happening now.
For the second night Bram stayed by the old man's side. Nahamkin dozed fitfully, but sleep came nowhere near Bram. He spent most of the night with his feet dangling from the edge of the loft, swinging them back and forth in a hypnotic, numbing rhythm; they were the only part of the nobleman to fall asleep.
Bram saw the sun rise now through the rotted thatch and closed his eyes tightly to the light, as if he could stop the day.
You're still here, lad." Nahamkin turned to Bram with the slowness of seasons revolving. His eyes held an odd clearness.
"Of course I am." Bram smiled encouragingly and soueezed Nahamkin's leathery hand.
Nahamkin laid a weary, raw-red arm to his forehead. '1 m so thirsty, I swear I could drink an entire bucket of water Be a good lad and bring me some," the old man said
'Must be from the fever," Bram remarked as he tbe CDeiwiSA plague
slipped down the ladder. He took a wooden bucket outside to the well, blinking in the bright, cold sunshine. Should he tell Nahamkin that Hoark Sivesten had died of the disease? Was it more cruel to tell him or not? Bram slapped his face with frigid water to chase away the tumult in his head.
He had no answers as he carried the filled bucket back into the dimness of the cottage. The young nobleman nearly gagged at the foul stench of sickness that his nose had grown used to before the brief breath of fresh air. His eyes watered, and when they adjusted enough to see, his gaze came first upon the tallow candles they had made just days before. Four days of witnessing unexplainable sickness had nearly erased the memory.