Taking up a quill pen, he began to make notes. ‘The deaths of so many scar us all,’ he wrote. Then he paused. From the back room the sound of sobbing increased.
‘Will you stop that wailing!’ he shouted through the wall. ‘I am trying to work in here.’
For Skilgannon the night had been long and sleepless, his mind haunted by painful memories, and laden with the guilts of his life. He had led men into battle — and for this he felt little shame — but he had also taken part in the razing of towns, and the awful butchery that accompanied it. He had allowed himself to be swept along on a tide of hatred and vengeance, his sword dripping with the blood of innocence. Those memories would not go away.
When the Queen had addressed her troops before the last battle — the dreadful storming of Perapolis — she had ordered that no-one should be left alive, not one man, woman or child within the besieged city. ‘All are traitors,’ she said. ‘Let their fate be an example for all time.’
The troops had cheered. The civil war had been long and bloody and victory was at hand. Yet it was one thing to say the words, and quite another to be part of the slaughter. As a general Skilgannon had not needed to bloody his sword. And yet he had. He had run through the alleys of Perapolis, slashing and killing until his clothes and armour were drenched in blood.
The following day he had walked through the now silent streets. Corpses were everywhere. Thousands had been killed. He saw the bodies of children and babes, old women and young girls. His heart had been sickened beyond despair at the sight.
On the high tower wall Skilgannon stared up at the fading stars. If there was a supreme being — and this he doubted — then his sins would never be washed away. He was a damned soul, in a damned world.
‘Where were you when the children were being slaughtered?’ he asked, looking up into the vast blackness. ‘Where were your tears that day?’
Something glinted in the distance and he saw another fire in the town.
Some other poor soul was being tortured and killed. An empty anger swept through Skilgannon. Idly he touched the locket on the chain round his neck. Within it was all that was left of Dayan.
Three days they had shared after his return from the war. Her pregnancy had not yet begun to show, but there was more colour in her cheeks, and a silken sheen to her golden hair. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, 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.’