The flames were high now inside and as he tried to enter he felt the ferocity of the heat. Sucking in a deep breath he gave a yell and hurled himself forward. Fires were all around him as he reached the unconscious woman. Grabbing her arm he began to drag her across the floor. Her nightdress caught alight, but he could not stop to put it out. Flames licked at his arms and the backs of his legs, and he could feel his clothing charring. Still he would not let go. He screamed in pain but struggled on. Once into the doorway he heard a great groan from the timbers above. They suddenly sagged and burning thatch showered down over Aunt Athlya. Rabalyn hauled the woman out onto open ground.
Her nightdress was ablaze; he knelt by her side, beating out the flames with his hands, and wrenching the garment clear of her body. In the brightness of the fire he could see burns all over her legs. Pulling her even further from the blazing building, he left her for a moment and ran to the well, dropping the bucket, and then hauling it up. It seemed to take an age. Carrying the bucket to Aunt Athyla, he tore off his shirt and dipped it into the water. Then, squatting naked beside her, he gently dabbed the drenched shirt to Athyla’s smoke-smeared face. Suddenly she coughed, and his relief was total.
“It’s all right, Aunt. We’re all right.”
“Oh dear,” she said. Then there was silence.
People began to arrive, rushing forward to surround Rabalyn.
“What happened, boy?” asked a voice.
“Someone set fire to the cottage,” he said. “They blocked the door to stop us getting out.”
“Did you see anyone?”
Rabalyn did not answer. “Help my aunt,” he said. “Please help my aunt.”
A man knelt down beside the still form and held a finger to her throat. “She’s gone, boy. Smoke did for her, I reckon.”
“She just spoke to me. She’s going to be all right.” His voice was breaking as he began to shake Aunt Athyla by the shoulders. “Wake up, Aunt. Wake up.”
“What happened here?” asked Councillor Raseev.
“Someone fired the cottage,” said the man beside Rabalyn. “The boy says they blocked the front door.”
Rabalyn looked up and saw Raseev. He was a tall man, with graying blond hair and a wide handsome face. His voice was smooth and deep. “What did you see, boy?” he asked.
“I woke up with the flames and the smoke,” said Rabalyn. “I tried to get Aunt Athyla out, but someone put a bench against the front door. I had to climb out of the window to move it. Will someone help my aunt!”
A woman knelt beside Athyla. She also felt for a pulse. “There is nothing to be done,” she said. “Athyla is gone, Rabalyn.”
“I asked what you saw, boy,” repeated Raseev. “Could you identify the villain who did this?”
Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet. He felt light-headed, as if all this was but a dream. The pain from the burns on his hands, arms, and legs faded away. “I saw no one,” he said. He looked around at the faces of the gathered townsfolk. “But I know who did it. I only have one enemy.”
“Speak the name, boy!” ordered Raseev.
Rabalyn located Todhe in the crowd, and saw no fear in his eyes. If Rabalyn named him nothing would be done. No one had seen him torch the cottage. He was the son of the most powerful man in the town. He was immune from the law. Rabalyn turned away and dropped down to his knees beside his aunt. Reaching out he stroked her dead face. Guilt was heavy on his heart. Had he not made an enemy of Todhe then Aunt Athyla would still be alive. “Who is your enemy, boy?” demanded Raseev.
Rabalyn kissed his aunt’s cheek, then he rose to his feet. He turned to Raseev. “I didn’t see no one,” he said. “He swung toward the crowd. “But I know who did it. He’ll pay. With his bastard life!” He looked straight at Todhe—and this time there was real fear in the youth’s eyes.
Todhe ran forward and grabbed his father’s arm. “He is talking about me, father,” he said. “He is threatening me!”
“Is this true?” thundered Raseev.
“Did he torch my aunt’s house?” asked Rabalyn.
“Of course he did not!”
“Then he has nothing to fear, does he?”
Rabalyn walked away. In that moment Todhe broke away from his father and drew a knife from his belt.
“No, son!” yelled Raseev. The burly youth leapt at Rabalyn. Hearing the cry Rabalyn turned. Todhe’s knife flashed toward his face. Rabalyn swayed back. The blade missed him by inches. He hammered an overhand right to the side of Todhe’s jaw. The bigger youth, off balance, staggered. Rabalyn ran in and kicked Todhe in the stomach. Todhe dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Without thinking Rabalyn swept up the blade and plunged it into Todhe’s neck. The blade thudded against bone, then sliced through the youth’s jugular. Blood gushed over Rabalyn’s hand. Todhe gave a strangled cry and tried to stand. His knees gave way and he fell to his face on the ground. Raseev shouted: “No!” and ran to his son’s side. Rabalyn stood there, the knife in his hand dripping blood.
For a moment nothing was said. The crowd stood stunned into silence. Then Raseev looked up. “Murder!” he shouted. “You all saw it! This vile creature has murdered my son!”
Still no one moved. But then two soldiers of the Watch pushed themselves through the crowd. Rabalyn dropped the knife and ran, vaulting the low wall around the burning cottage and sprinting through the streets.
He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to escape. The punishment for murder was public strangulation, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would be found guilty at trial. Todhe had dropped the knife. He was unarmed when Rabalyn slew him.
Panicked now, the pain from his burns forgotten, the naked youth ran for his life.
Raseev Kalikan’s view of himself was complex and distorted. People saw him as honest and a loyal worker for the good of the town and its people. Therefore, in his own mind, that was what he was. The fact that he misappropriated town funds for his own benefit, and awarded building contracts to those of his cronies who paid him bribes, did not alter his own view of himself. On those rare occasions when his conscience pricked him he would think: “But this is how the world works. If I didn’t do it, someone else would.” He used words like honor and principle, faith and patriotism. His voice was rich and deep and persuasive, and when he used those words in his public speeches he would often see tears in the eyes of the townsfolk who loved him. It was most moving, and, caught up in the moment, he would become quite emotional himself. Raseev Kalikan truly believed only in what was good for Raseev Kalikan. He was his own god and his own ambition. In short, Raseev Kalikan was a politician.
His greatest talent was an innate feeling for which way the political wind was blowing.
When the king’s armies had suffered defeats, and the ruler had turned on his advisers, the day of the Arbiters had dawned. Until now the Arbiters had been a minor force in the political life of Tantria, raging against what they saw as the malign influence of foreigners living within Tantria’s borders. Now they were preeminent. All the ills that had befallen the new nation were laid at the door of foreigners from Dospilis or Naashan or Ventria. Even the few Drenai merchants in the capital were viewed with deep suspicion. The irony was that the new leader of the Arbiters was himself a foreigner, Shakusan Ironmask, the captain of the Warhounds, the king’s mercenary bodyguard. Raseev had greeted the Arbiter representatives to the town warmly, and made them welcome in his own home. He had embraced their cause and pictured himself rising through the ranks, and perhaps moving on to a greater role in the future in Mellicane.
When the Arbiters had spoken against the church, Raseev had spotted an opportunity not only to advance himself politically, but also to wipe away his debts. The church owned much of the property in the town and also made loans to aid local businesses. Raseev had taken out three large loans in the past four years, in order to promote and build his business interest. Two of his ventures—timber felling and mining—had failed miserably, leaving him t
o face large losses. The church men were doomed anyway, so why should he not come away from their destruction with increased financial benefit?
The problem was that he had not been able to stir up the people sufficiently to attack the church directly. Many of them recalled how the priests had helped them during the time of plague and drought. The attack on the old teacher by some of Raseev’s hired men had also been viewed with distaste by many—though no one had spoken out directly. And when that other priest had caused the Arbiter to stab himself, some had even laughed at his misfortune.
But now there was a way forward.
People’s sympathies were with Raseev following the death of Todhe, and word had been spread that the killer had taken refuge in the church, and that the abbot had refused to hand him over to the authorities for trial. This was not true, but it was believed to be, and that was what counted.
Raseev stayed in his house that night, the body of his son laid out in a back room and dressed in his best clothes. He could hear his wife weeping and wailing over the stupid lout. How strange women are, he thought. Todhe was useless in every way. He was dull, vicious, and a constant trial to Raseev. At least in death he could achieve something.
Several of Raseev’s most trusted supporters were out now, stirring the crowds, calling for the church to be stormed and the killer taken.
Antol the Baker was a bitter, vengeful man, and he would lead the crowd. Others who worked closely with Raseev would have weapons hidden, which would be drawn as soon as they were in the church buildings. Once the killings began the mob would rage through the church environs. Those priests who were not slain would flee. Then Raseev would locate the church treasury and seize its assets. It would also be a good time to find and destroy their records.
He took a deep breath and began to work on a speech. The murders of the priests could not be overlooked, and he would be forced to speak out against the dangers of hatred, and to have the speech recorded and placed in the council records.
Political winds had a habit of changing, and, at some point in the future, Raseev could then point out that he had been against the violence.
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 walls. “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 siege at Perapolis—she had ordered that no one should be left alive, not one man, woman, or child within the rebel 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 streets of Perapolis, slashing and killing until his clothes and armor 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 around 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 color 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 like 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. He would never forget the man’s reaction when he examined Dayan. The surgeon, a man of quiet confidence, shrewd and resourceful, 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 backward. All confidence fled from him. He continued to back away toward 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.
Toward 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 toward 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 the 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 pro
bed 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 today. “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 midsentence, 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 in to 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.
White Wolf Page 6
