The Plague Diaries

by Ronlyn Domingue

  “Why did you want the land?” I asked.

  “Because of what it yields—which I require of every acre I own. But in this case, and few others, as well as what it might. I’m in search of something yet to be found. An elusive acquisition. Tell me, if you could have anything at all, what would it be?”

  “I have simple needs and wants.”

  “You are human and entitled to dream.”

  “Anything?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said.

  I glanced at the instrument at the end of the table. It was round, mirrored, with one hole on its edge the diameter of a small plum. A heliotrope. I leaned over to inspect it and lurched back when I caught a glimpse of a face, realizing after a blink it was my own.

  Fewmany sniffed and blew as I pondered. In my life, I’d imagined many impossible things. To be beautiful and charming, to have brothers born alive, to never be afraid, to leave Rothwyke and never return, and more I couldn’t quite name. Most were a child’s wishes, unattainable.

  What I answered was unlikely to happen but truthful. “I would wish to have a library such as yours.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “There’s pleasure in knowledge but more so in understanding, and that requires years of study in a suitable environment.”

  “How passionless.”

  “Then I will keep my answer and recall an open window with a slant of afternoon sun, and the brown smell of a tanned skin under my fingertips, and the smoked cherry taste of a good wine.”

  “Better,” he said.

  I walked to a cabinet filled with objects. Balanced against it was the waywiser Fewmany had acquired the previous summer. I took the handle and rolled the wheel against the floor. The squeak was muted—he must have oiled it—but the noise irritated me still. As I put the instrument back in place, my shoulders seized with a torturous ache, which streaked into my hips, rooting me in pain through my soles.

  A rupture was upon me.

  I could do nothing but hold myself rigid as the waywiser before me disintegrated like a rotted cloth and another formed within my inner sight. It was worn, much used. Withered, ink-stained fingers wrapped around its handle, held out in the offer of a gift. Affection and sadness flooded my heart as a name tried to whisper through.

  As the rupture’s violence reverberated in my bones, I opened the cabinet doors.

  “What is the thing you seek but cannot find?” I asked. My hands reached toward the instruments as if they had a will of their own.

  “A treasure as old as myth. Many have tried and failed. Many have died in its pursuit.”

  I twirled a compass in my palm. “Am I supposed to guess the riddle, or will you speak plainly?”

  “The hoard.”

  The needle drew blood, and I felt the thick pull of sleep.

  He took the compass away and offered a clean handkerchief. I pressed it against the wound. “Stories of it have descended through the ages. You know this and know it well,” Fewmany said.

  “It’s also thought to be under careful guard,” I said.

  He laughed. “Oh-ho—a fire-breathing beastie, so we’ve been told. The infamous menace, bringer of ruin. Strange, isn’t it, the havoc it wreaks, destroying villages across the world, and princes for ages have quested to face its fury, yet not one—not one—has bothered to slay it once and for all and claim its apocryphal prize.”

  “Perhaps there’s nothing to find. No dragon, no hoard, no truth in it at all,” I said.

  “If it didn’t exist, why would its legend endure?” he asked.

  “Wishful thinking, like turning lead into gold.”

  He smirked, then sneezed into his arm. “I prefer to assume some recondite knowledge has been ostensibly lost, or instead misplaced, through the ages. Calamity or war, or the death of certain men and kingdoms.”

  “Possibly, the raiding and burning of libraries.” I brought my hand to my mouth to suck away the blood. I thought of the empty plaque in the locked room of dead animals, waiting for a dragon’s head. “Or a metaphor, the meaning of the story more important than the facts.”

  “The rational makes sense, but the irrational is far more interesting.” Fewmany brushed his fingertips across one of the maps. “That said, there are plausible theories about this hoard. A warrior’s hidden booty, a dead king’s grave, the jeweled veins of a dark cave, the treasure of a lost civilization. But presuming a dragon were involved, what do the old tales tell us?”

  Knowing him as I did, his words seemed guarded. A shiver streaked through my spine as an image came unbidden—the scissors and the symbol—and I looked into his bloodshot eyes. His brow arched playfully.

  “That depends. In some traditions, the dragon is benevolent or at least harmless. We’re familiar with the dragon as a creature who steals what it likes, keeps account of what it’s taken, and exacts revenge if it’s robbed. I’d advise caution if you proceed,” I said.

  Fewmany wandered around the center table and picked up the copper globe I’d held earlier. “Strange mysteries abound. A wise man allows for what cannot be explained.” He placed the globe on its stand and turned to close the drapes.

  I followed Mutt out and heard the lock slip as Fewmany shut the room. He left the library then, complaining he felt quite poorly.

  For a long while, I stood next to the fire, giving no mind to the rupture or the memory of the scissors and symbol, warmer for the confidence he shared with me, the kind one would only share with an intimate friend.

  ROTHWYKE DAILY MERCURY.

  2 February /37. Page 4, Column 1

  UNEXPLAINED MANIA—What caused the paroxysms among the adults in the ward of Warrick two days past? After four o’clock, people exhibited behavior unbefitting public display. Firsthand accounts told of men and women in the streets and shops with tears streaming down their faces, many trying in vain to hide what had come over them. Some erupted into fits of rage, howling into the air, pounding the walls with their fists, and whipping their carthorses until the beasts bled. Others became paralyzed in silence, immobile as sculptures where they stood.

  No children were reported to sicken, but youngsters who were at the intersection of Turpery and Vine gave an account of what preceded the dramatic outbursts.

  According to five children, a brown rabbit was seen darting across the cobblestones until it stopped near a drainage grate and began to scream as if in excruciating pain. As it screamed, a boy, described as urchinly with light hair and spectacles and approximately eight years of age, approached the animal and cradled it.

  Several adults confirm seeing the rabbit, but none claim to have seen the child. The five youngsters insist the lone boy walked away with the rabbit singing a melody “in a high voice like a bird.” In the ensuing moments, the adults around them lost their composure or seemed to “fall asleep with their eyes open” where they stood. No adult has come forth claiming to hear the child’s song.

  The paroxysms afflicted the victims for approximately one hour. Through the evening, the ill effects were exhaustion, nausea, tingling of the extremities, and inability to concentrate.

  Learned speculation suggests a miasma brought about the unpleasant events, though there are those who blame that day’s full moon and sorcery.

  WEEKLY POST.

  2 February /37. Page 2, Column 1

  DANGEROUS GROUND—Rothwyke Services is investigating the sudden appearance of a crevice one block south of the New Wheel development. Several workers report feeling subtle tremors in the past weeks, which they presumed were related to construction. The crack is, at present, five yards in length and reaches to a depth of two feet. Mr. Beardsley, lead officer at Rothwyke Services, dispelled rumors that the weight and rumble of steamwheelers have caused this geological instability.

  MARCH /37

  Inviting your and, if desired, a guest’s attendance

  at the Masquerade Ball.

  Revelries to ensue at the manor of Fewmany

  on the evening of 1 May.


  Guests must be masked before they arrive and remain so until they depart from the event.

  Carriages will be offered at the end of the evening for those who require them.

  All due confidentiality regarding this invitation and whatever occurs that evening is obligated.

  The honor of a reply is requested.

  The invitation was left on the table, the writing on the envelope in Fewmany’s hand. I placed my cordial reply on the supply cabinet, awaiting Naughton’s delivery.

  For months, I’d pinched and saved in anticipation. I wouldn’t take another ingot to pay for my costume, but I would spend lavishly. When I visited Margana, I told her I wanted something to fill those who saw me with awe.

  “I will do my best to oblige,” she said.

  THOSE FIRST DAYS OF THE month, I enjoyed a cheerful, expectant mood. Fewmany invited me to a dinner with a large group of guests. Although Remarque was among them, I accepted.

  On the twelfth of March, I was seated next to a scientist and a literature professor, both in Rothwyke to give lectures. The former was a woman, Dr. Bechgert, her Kirsauan accent distinct. She spoke of her theory that disease was caused by organisms, spread by contact with any fluid which harbored them. A controversial assertion, she said, which caused her great derision among her colleagues.

  The latter was an older man, with very kind eyes, who taught at a high academy where I’d been rejected twice. I made no mention of the slight. While Remarque talked loudly at the other end of the table, Professor Karkes and I slipped into an exclusive conversation. When he revealed Fewmany told him of my interest in myths, a subject he included in his courses, we spoke for some time before he said he particularly liked creation myths and told of his favorites.

  Perhaps I meant to impress him, perhaps my enthusiasm got the better of me, but I abandoned my dessert to tell him one I’d heard but never found in a book.

  It was the first myth in the cycle Old Woman taught me and recited to the infant animals born near her cottage, which began, “Do you remember, small one, before you opened your eyes, The Great Sleep, which came before All That Is?” The myth told of the red dragon who came into being to witness the creation of the world.

  When I finished, I sensed Fewmany’s attention. I looked at him across the table, his finger on the lip of his glass, a satisfied grin on his face. I understood then, Professor Karkes was a gift Fewmany was pleased to bestow.

  I smiled back at him as Professor Karkes patted his pockets. “I must jot a note,” he said, finding a paper scrap and a pencil nib. “Tell me, Miss Riven, from whom did you hear it?”

  “A woman I knew once,” I said, suddenly cautious.

  “I’ve never heard a myth quite like that. Do you know where she learned it? Was she from Ailliath or elsewhere?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied, almost in a whisper. “I was quite young when I knew her. Her stories stayed with me.”

  “Understandably,” Professor Karkes said.

  For a time, Dr. Bechgert, the professor, and I spoke of the war between Haaud and Giphia. At last, the town of Deket was back in Giphia’s control, but there was cause to worry Haaud was preparing for a greater fight, next with Kirsau.

  Our entertainment that evening was a performance by one of the guests, a violinist, and Fewmany’s staff musicians. When the hour became late and the guests bid their thank-yous and good-byes, Fewmany asked me to join him and Remarque in the library. He promised not to keep me but a few moments.

  Because of that assurance, I agreed, although I’d avoided Remarque all evening out of fear he’d say something to rile my nerves. Up the stairs I went with Fewmany, discussing Dr. Bechgert’s theory.

  When we entered, Remarque was bent over the table, lamps lit.

  “Expert among experts, what do you say?” Fewmany asked.

  “My opinion hasn’t changed,” Remarque said as he pushed the arcane manuscript toward the table’s center. “Paper doesn’t endure like parchment, and given the condition, it cannot be that old. Virtually no foxing. It should have a more pronounced smell. And it’s so thin—only the finest artisan could craft a material so delicate that’s still durable. I’ve seen enough alphabets and syllabaries to know what is legitimate, and although it was written in a system, I don’t think it’s a language.”

  “Other linguists concluded the same,” Fewmany said.

  “And no provenance! You know how that irks me, Fewmany. If you plan to dispense of it, I will not broker it. I have a reputation to uphold,” Remarque said.

  “Your integrity is at no risk,” Fewmany said. He picked up the manuscript and offered it to me. “ ’Tis yours, by right.”

  I stepped back.

  “Hers?” Remarque asked.

  “I’ll explain the circumstances later. Secret, take it.”

  The brush of our hands, or the touch of the paper, sent a shock through my arm.

  My manners, I remembered. “Thank you. This is unexpected, unnecessary.”

  “How did your mother obtain it?” Remarque asked.

  “I don’t know,” I lied.

  “When did she get it?” Remarque asked.

  “I’m not certain,” I lied again.

  “Did she speculate of its origin, because if anyone could attest to—”

  “Mr. Remarque, my mother, as you well know, was a terse woman. Why this manuscript was in her possession, I have no idea. What she thought of it, or what she might have known or speculated about its content, I cannot say,” I said. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be huddled under my quilts, sipping stale air until my thoughts went black.

  To Remarque’s protest, I wished them a good night and thanked Fewmany again for his gesture.

  I rang for the carriage, walked downstairs, unlocked the door, and waited for Naughton to bring my cloak.

  Moments later, Fewmany whisked into the hall as Naughton appeared from behind the stairs with my cloak on his arm.

  Fewmany peered down at me. “As usual, I apologize for him, and if I caused you any distress or embarrassment, I am sorry.”

  “Neither of you meant harm,” I said.

  “Their absence is a wound thinly scabbed, no matter the time passed,” he said.

  I thwarted a laugh. To him, to anyone, I would have appeared to restrain a swell of grief. He had misread me completely. “Yes, of course,” I said.

  Naughton stood at the door. His presence wasn’t that of a servant, detached, almost unseeing, but of someone observing.

  “Shall I wait with you?” Fewmany asked.

  “I will, sir,” Naughton said as he held my cloak open.

  “I’ll be all right on my own, thank you.” I slipped into the garment. “The carriage will be here soon enough.”

  The men looked at each other, then at me. They were hesitant to honor my wish, but they did. I stood outside with my back to the door, the manuscript pressed against my chest, and stared at the castle’s outline. A scuffling noise turned my attention.

  A fox approached the steps with a skulk of them behind her. All at once, they raised their heads in a cry, running in circles until the carriage frightened them away.

  WHEN I HEARD THE KNOCK, I was stoking the stove’s coals to heat the kettle and take the chill from the room. Rarely did anyone come to my door; Father if he came to take me out for the evening, one of the Misses Acutt in search of Sir Pouncelot, or Julia to say hello.

  The visitor wasn’t a neighbor. A man stood opposite me, his blond hair catching the light from the sconce near my doorway.

  “My apologies. I must have the wrong address,” he said.

  “Nikolas. Come in,” I said.

  “Why, Miss Riven, what dark hair you have—again.”

  With the ease as if he’d done so before, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. I glanced behind him. His guard stood at the top of the stairs. Once Nikolas stepped inside, I closed the door. He looked exactly as he did the last time I saw him.

  “Surprised you, have I?” he asked.<
br />
  “You weren’t expected back for months. Suddenly, here you are,” I said.

  I invited him to sit as I checked the kettle. On the hook by the door, he hung his coat over my cloak and walked to the windows. He peered into the falling darkness, then around my room. He stepped toward my night table, touched the carved stag, and smiled without comment.

  This was only the third time he’d been in my private space—the first time after the fever, the second after my mother’s death—and his presence felt more intimate now than it had then.

  “A cozy little home you have,” he said.

  “Thank you. How was your return trip?” I asked.

  While I prepared cheese sandwiches and tea, he stood at the cupboard and began to tell of his journey. He took the plate to the table when I served our cups. As we sat across from each other, Nikolas alive and well and glad to be home, I could make no sense of the conflict within me—the relief and the reluctance of seeing him after almost two years.

  “Enough of that. And you?” he asked.

  I told him what I’d written in my last letter, which I’d sent days before. Nothing unusual.

  “I have to ask, because you haven’t mentioned them. How is Old Woman? And Cyril? Is he impossibly still among us?”

  For an instant, I thought to lie and soon regretted that I didn’t. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “Precisely that. I haven’t been to the woods in some time.”

  “Since when?”

  “The summer you left.”

  That impassive expression of his smoothed every line in his face. He was thinking, and as it had always been, I couldn’t tell what, other than he was and deeply.

  “Your eyes—the colors are lost behind the glass. Your hair—the silver hints at the roots, but the rest is covered black. Your heart—forgive me, but where did it go?”

  I was shocked, then angry. “I merely said I don’t know because I haven’t gone, and you rush to undue judgments.”