The Plague Diaries

by Ronlyn Domingue

  “A resemblance to be sure, that black hair and swarthy skin. See here, remove your spectacles. Do you have those same eerie violet eyes?” Remarque asked.

  “Quire, some restraint,” Fewmany said, raising his hand toward me in a halting gesture.

  “Oh, that was rude, my apologies,” Remarque said. “That aside, an unwonted beauty, aren’t you. A strong mind, a thorough one. Quiet but not meek. No, you do not cede space among men, I can tell. Like her.” He winked.

  I took several sips of water to open my throat. “I had no awareness of your acquaintance.”

  “We entered Altwort the same year. My belated sympathies for her loss. Devastating to scholars and collectors who knew her work. And to her loving daughter and husband. An accident, I heard. She choked, did she?”

  My tongue lay dead. I could only nod.

  “I must ask. Do you have her gift?”

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “The knowledge of every language ever spoken.”

  For a moment, my sight dimmed, my body felt small, and my ears filled with her muttering, burbling, the stream of words in countless languages breaching her lips, while she worked, while she cooked, while she sat alone. My mother had been born with the ability to speak the languages of the entire known and ancient worlds.12 If that weren’t incomprehensible enough, she could also read and write them, a skill which for ordinary people required a teacher to learn. As a child, she’d been punished for this. As an adult, she used it to her advantage to make her own way as a translator.

  “No. I’m schooled in classical ones, fluent in four modern, literate in three others, but that’s all,” I said.

  “Miss Riven apprenticed in our translations office with distinction,” Fewmany said.

  “Well, then, you know the fellows! Cuthbert and Leo Gray and Pungent Rowland—oh, have I told you this story before, Fewmany?” Remarque began.

  My eyes shut as I exhaled with relief. When I looked up, Fewmany glanced at me, with concern, with curiosity, I couldn’t quite tell. I didn’t care. He’d spared me whether he knew it or not. I declined the offer of a cordial and conversation in the library, stating I had the beginnings of a headache. Fewmany rang for the carriage as Remarque gave me an effusive farewell, clasping my hand in both of his with Ilsacean forwardness.

  APRIL /36

  MY DIARY FOR THE APRIL dinner included the following: “Beautiful night, so clear and pleasant, dinner served near the formal garden. Ten guests. Most interesting, Professor Hawkes, archeologist who excavated a tell (city built on the ruins of another, possibly several!) in Nandir. Fewmany unlocked a room on the second floor—trophies. The sight of it unsettled me. His dragon’s head joke—?”

  I must have been tired to write so little, affected to remember so much.

  That night, when we entered the room, one door away from the chamber filled with wolves, the space was bright as day from the lit sconces and chandeliers. Exclamations and gasps put me on guard as I followed the group inside, Fewmany at the rear.

  The animals fascinated and sickened me. Heads and entire bodies of beasts and birds from all over the world, some almost as exotic as any in a bestiary. I observed details I could never discern from a description, illustration, or luminotype. When Fewmany announced we could touch them, I found myself next to a great stag. My hands swept across his shoulder to an old wound. How much I wanted him alive, to hear him tell what caused that gnarled scar. I hid to wipe my eyes, furious I couldn’t be like everyone else who gaped and touched with simple awe, furious at myself for a lapse into my old ways.

  I walked among the trophies with my head down, avoiding the faces as Fewmany answered questions about how he acquired them, some he’d hunted himself.

  A guest noticed an empty mounting plaque on the wall and asked what was missing.

  “The head of a dragon,” Fewmany said.

  The room filled with laughter, some amused, most nervous. Fewmany flashed a good-natured smile, but there was a stillness in his eyes. He noticed my gaze and held it steady for the beat of a breath. When he blinked, the light there was diffuse.

  I remembered he’d made a similar remark the first time I was called to his private office at Fewmany Incorporated and I commented on the mounted menagerie on his wall.13

  “Absent that, Mr. Goossens, an elephant’s. You’ll notice I haven’t one yet,” Fewmany said.

  Then, before the Plague of Silences, the dragon menace was the stuff of longsheet and newsbox reports. Everyone knew of the random destruction it leveled on distant villages but none close enough to verify, it seemed. No one discussed—not publicly or among unfamiliar company—whether they believed or disbelieved the dragon existed. Regardless, for generations, the firstborn princes in many kingdoms were sent to quest and to take a scale from its body as proof of a confrontation.

  At the castle, I had seen the display of red scales gathered by princes who became kings of Ailliath—from Wyl,I the first to quest, not long before The Mapmaker’s War, to Aeldrich, who still held the throne.

  A few years later, on the wedding day of his sister Ursula, nicknamed Charming, Nikolas discussed the quest with me, only that once. We stood on a tower as we looked out at Rothwyke and beyond. He was aware of the inherent symbolism of the act, staring evil in the eye. He also questioned the purpose of the quest—and the dragon’s very existence.14

  As Nikolas and I talked that afternoon, I thought of the stories Father told me and the myths I’d heard from Old Woman. Dragons as monsters, destructive and voracious; dragons as beings, wise and strong, old as time.

  The night of Fewmany’s dinner, I thought about the archaic echo in our modern era. The blur between fact and fiction, which, as it turns out, can be both at once.

  DIARY ENTRY 27 APRIL /36

  As of yesterday, I’m on a two-week holiday required by Fewmany. There has been no mention of the ball, but I assume there’s a preparation taking place now, then a tidying up afterward.

  I went for a last costume fitting. Breathtaking! Feathers cover the mask, which sits on my head by means of a little cap, and there is a tiny beak, which covers the top of my nose. The sleeves and the train of my dress are designed to resemble wings and a forked tail. The toes of my slippers have little claws. The way I feel wearing it, I could almost take flight!

  When I returned home, I saw a child whom I’d only glimpsed before but heard her name shouted often. Julia, who lives on the fourth floor, was seated on the landing. Sir Pounce slept on a blanket close by.

  A greeting would have sufficed, but I introduced myself properly and asked her name and her age. She’s eight, almost nine. Her brother Lucas, whom she “detests,” is five. I remarked on the doll she held, whose name is Flowsy (“like flower,” she said). She appeared to like me because she offered Flowsy’s hand to shake and asked if I had a brother. I told her I didn’t (too complicated to explain the stillborn ones to her) but I had a very dear friend who was as close to a brother as I might wish.

  Julia asked his name. When I told her, she exclaimed, “That’s the same name as the prince!” and her eyes widened, then squinted after I said he was one and the same.

  “You’re lying. Only a fine lady would know the prince, and you are not.” She pressed her lips together as if she should say no more.

  I’ve been truthful with my answers when asked about my circumstances and work, but apparently there are opinions calling me into question. I was somewhat insulted and amused by what Julia said and wondered what she’d overheard. Regardless, I told her, “I tell the truth. We attended school together and became very good friends.”

  Her mother called her, hidden behind the door. Julia stood to leave and peered up at me. “Could we be friends, too?”

  How strange then, my eyes stung with the threat of tears. “Of course.”

  “Oh! You are my friend whose name is Secret. I mean, Miss Riven.”

  “You may address me secretly,” I whispered.

  A sweet smile, she has. I fe
ar it’s a rare one.

  WEEKLY POST.

  28 April /36. Page 2, Column 1

  WALL PLANNED—In days of old, walls surrounded villages and towns. Walls defined boundaries and protected those inside. Enemies who appeared risked arrows through the heart, weights upon their heads, and boiling liquids on their flesh. When this barbarism waned, walls fell into disfavor and disrepair.

  Yet continuous concern regarding the threat of foreign armies and the dragon menace prompted a lengthy negotiation to construct a new wall around our fair Rothwyke. An agreement was signed on Tuesday between Ailliath and Fewmany Incorporated.

  As proposed, the new wall will incorporate much of the west green and a portion of the east meadowland, to accommodate future wards. Some designated areas of the wall’s walkway will be open for pedestrians.

  The main gate will be to the east, with smaller gates in the south and north. No gate is planned to the west, as the woods past the green create a natural barrier. When completed, the stone wall will be 20 feet thick and 50 feet high, and towers may exceed 80 feet.

  In His Majesty’s proclamation, King Aeldrich declared the protection of our kingdom and its people is of utmost importance. A representative of Fewmany Incorporated remarked the wall is for the greater good.

  * * *

  I. Wyl, pronounced will.

  MAY /36

  HALF AN HOUR PAST SUNDOWN, a carriage whisked me through lamplit streets. Along the curved drive at Fewmany’s manor, torches illuminated the way. A tent surrounded the house’s front entrance. When the coachmen stopped the horses, the door flung open to a dark passage.

  An ungloved hand reached out in the gloam. I took its offer. The young man smiled. I tried to thwart my audacious stare, but his loose trousers, naked chest, and comely face allured me. Once my feet reached the ground, I turned my eyes to the left. There stood a young woman, beautiful as the young man, who wore a silk frock with no sleeves and a low neck. The sight of their skin was shocking.

  “Shall I lead you within?” he asked, my hand still clutched in his.

  I almost returned to the carriage and the familiar press of night in my own room. But I didn’t, allowing the man to walk me through the tunnel made of evergreen boughs. My footsteps didn’t fall on marble but on flower petals so thick the walk was cushioned. A fragrance I had never smelled before surrounded me, a heavy but pleasant scent which made me think of blood and sap. I could see a bright light ahead and hear pounding music. Before I could study him, the young man released me.

  The hall with its round table and familiar rug had disappeared. Vines covered the walls and most of the doors. Tree trunks reached from floor to ceiling. Boughs of greenery made an impenetrable canopy. Crystal and metal lamps hung above and the lush green carpets below belied the initial illusion. A brown rabbit darted from a grouping of ferns.

  Behind my mask, I watched the other guests. They, too, had taken efforts to adorn themselves beyond recognition. Some were so wildly attired I couldn’t tell whether they were men or women, although I determined that was the intent. Most, however, had chosen formal wear exaggerated in design and textiles.

  A balding man with a bear muzzle mask wore a brilliant pink long-tailed velvet coat. He spoke with a woman whose bosom burgeoned far past bodily limits, giving shape to the two iridescent beetles that sat upon the striped orange and yellow mushroom that was her skirt. Her hair piled into a tidy nest on her head, out of which peeked a stuffed red squirrel, and the mask across her face was woven into the coiffed strands.

  The music reached a crescendo then collapsed into silence. A squeal pierced through the applause. A woman burst from the northeast corner, chased by a laughing man whose cape dragged the floor. From the opposite corner, near the servants’ stair, twelve people carrying trays heaped with food stepped into the hall. They walked gingerly, their bodies below the waist like sheep, with white fleece legs and hoofed feet, which forced them to step on hidden tiptoes. On their heads were hats with sheeps’ ears. The men’s torsos were bare, and the women’s breasts were covered by triangles of fleece held in place by strings.

  I followed behind them into the ballroom. The breeze through the open windows couldn’t dissipate the weighty scent I’d encountered in the tunnel. To my right, in the distance, musicians stood on a dais. Below me, braided blue mats padded the floor. Ahead, several tables were heaped with every possible delicacy—meats, cheeses, fish, dried and preserved fruits, breads, pastries, custards. Crystal decanters held the gem hues of liquors and wines. Guests formed a line to the tables, each taking a platter and a goblet to fill.

  Everyone spilled into the hall and sat among the trees as if at a picnic. I retreated to the darkest shadow I could find, sipped my punch, and ate until I couldn’t swallow another bite.

  In my hidden place, I listened to the music and observed the guests. They ate and drank and talked and laughed. Among several, their hands and lips lost a sense of boundary. Rabbits and doves rustled below and above.

  A rabbit hopped nearby, followed by another, then another. Soon a colony surrounded me, their noses sniffing at my skirt and nudging my hands. Suddenly, they scattered. In the space where one had stood, I saw black boots polished to a reflective shine.

  “Oh-ho, what a furtive creature you are, my keeper of tales.”

  I looked up. My heart spiked into my throat.

  He wore the wolf coat from the chamber, the glass eyes replaced by his amber own. A gold cravat shimmered at his neck as true as the metal itself. His vest was a red deeper than pomegranates, as were the matching gloves. His trousers were a silvery gray much like the fur which covered the rest of him.

  I scrambled to my feet. “How did you recognize me?”

  “I didn’t. I rightly guessed your habits. Lone birdie in the bush,” Fewmany said. “Natura non facit saltum.”

  Nature makes no leap.

  “Come. There is nothing to fear. Join me in the ballroom,” Fewmany said.

  The scent I’d detected since my arrival urged itself further into my lungs. The music—mournful, sensual sounds pierced by sharp cymbal pings and dull drum thumps—became louder as I neared the dais. The performers wore robes and bright hats and played instruments I’d seen in books but had never heard before. Within the room, people danced to the strange rhythms. I noticed I’d fallen behind and quickened my pace to follow him.

  With his back to me, he said, “Long ago, this was a night of release and renewal. Simply because it is forgotten doesn’t mean the power is lost. We may still partake of the ecstasy of the old gods.”

  I felt a tremble spiral from my feet to my shoulders.

  When he turned, he held out a stemmed glass the size of a bird’s egg, full of a ruby liquid.

  “Not so simple as wine, this is a rare libation I serve only on this night. Drink it, and no circumstances will befall that you haven’t wished upon yourself.”

  Ecstasy of the old gods. A vivifying ritual. Yes. Blood and sap.

  I took a deep breath as I reached for it. The first sip stung with heat, the second with sweetness, the third with a longing for more. I drank the vessel dry.

  He took the glass. I detected a whirring warmth and turned to see a crowd forming. Fewmany gave a pleased smile. “Go. Find what you seek.”

  I felt heavy and open as deep water and wandered back into the hall, a sense beyond sight searching among the revelers.

  Then I saw a man standing alone. I approached him. He wore a helmet with curved ram horns and a plate that covered his forehead and eyes. His garments were those of a hunter—boots, thick trousers, leather jerkin, and loose linen shirt.

  Without a word, the hunter took the offer of my hand and led me behind him. On his back was a bow and empty quiver. We entered the ballroom, where people danced to the unfamiliar tones and melodies, unconcerned with proper steps, moving with natural rhythm. His hand brushed my waist. My hips began to sway. My fingers held the curve of his jaw and its astonishing firmness and heat. He was near my
age.

  Only once, alone, as a child at the castle’s grand ball, had I ever danced. What was happening now seemed like a dreamwish fulfilled.

  He struggled to find my eyes behind my mask’s tinted glass. “What’s your name?”

  I laughed. “My name is Secret.”

  “From where do you come?”

  “From below the sun and under the moon.”

  Slowly, with a grin, he circled me, stood at my back, and placed his hands on my hips. How long I, we, danced, I don’t know because the music continued with no pause.

  Minutes? hours? later, he whispered, “Will you join me for a walk?”

  “Yes.”

  He led me through the ballroom, the treed hall, and into the northeast corner, where the doors were always locked.

  Suspended among the vines, I saw a sign which read OPEN. The hunter pushed the door to a crack wide enough to enter.

  Around his shoulder, as my eyes adjusted to the light of hundreds of candles, I discerned the distant movement of human forms, in their own skins and pelts. There were sounds I had never heard before, yet intelligible to some part of me because the heat of my blood pooled heavier in my thighs. On the floor steps away, a man and a woman animated an image I’d seen between the covers of a book.

  I pulled him out to the courtyard. In the distance, two bonfires burned on the green. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew the gate was open, and the wooded land called to those who went near. The pull was almost impossible to refuse, but I did, whisking past couples who hid among the planters.

  I led him to the garden’s juniper labyrinth. No farther than a step or two, we were entwined at the arms and on the cool ground. In the light of the moon and stars, he reared up on his knees, shrugged out of the bow and quiver, and placed his hands against his helmet. I pressed my slippered foot into his chest and shook my head. Rules for the evening aside, I didn’t want to see him clearly—no—because under that mask, he could be anyone I wanted, anyone I dreamed of, and he was Michael, my chestnut-haired, green-eyed consort.