“You’re welcome. A carriage should be waiting at the gatehouse to spare you so late a walk,” Nikolas said.
In the main courtyard, Father said his good-byes to Harmyn with a hug and to Nikolas with a handshake more relaxed than the evening’s first. Father asked me to remain behind. I tensed, wondering what he wanted.
“You have time to talk. Make use of it,” Harmyn said.
Father, aware of the coachman’s proximity, motioned me to follow him away from passersby. “I’ve many, many questions, but there are two matters at the fore. First, I saw the map you gave to Fewmany. Was it fake?”
I didn’t expect this revelation or his directness. “No.”
“From where did it come?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What can you tell me, then? What do you know? Where is he?” he asked, his tone worried, not angry.
I realized Father had lost Fewmany, too, not only as an employer. They were both poor native sons of the same town, both men of uncommon obsessive pursuits, and both bound by the twists of history which came down to us. Beyond the respect and trust they shared, there must have been fondness, at least on Father’s part.
Let’s have this out at last, I thought. So, I told Father the truth. I told him the arcane manuscript my mother received not only revealed her as gifted but also divulged mysteries of Nature, time, and space. I explained the links—hollow trees—and the gaps, which bridged one place to another, and how animals served as guides.
“That’s what I did for Fewmany. I gave him a guide beyond the map. The hoard is real. The dragon is real. I saw each myself. They exist in a realm concurrent with ours,” I said.
“The brooch with the symbol?” Father said.
“Of course he showed it to you. It was proof,” I said. “Remember what you told me as a child, so often I memorized it? Fact is what happens in real life; fiction is what is make-believe. History is fact, and story is fiction. Myth is the make-believe history of the beginning and ending of everything. Legend is the strange child born of history and make-believe. Tale is a phantom with a body of fact and a heart of fiction. Well, the distinctions aren’t so clear. They exist all at once. This, Fewmany must learn for himself. I would not lead him. You will never see him again. His quest will require his lifetime.”
“You’re lying. You must be,” he said.
I glared at him, the wound of the scissors and symbol open again.
“Why would I lie to you now? There are things of and beyond this world you can’t even imagine. Mother, Harmyn—they’re proof. The manuscript—I’ve thought to give you a translation. You’d get answers to so many of your questions. You’d see what happened among us isn’t only about a fantastical search. Far more is at stake,” I said.
Father crossed his arms and placed his hand over his mouth, his thumb spinning the ring on his finger. He stared at me for several moments. “But he’s alive.”
“I assume so,” I said.
“Never to return?” he asked.
“Probably not.”
He shook his head, bewildered, but didn’t tell me what he was thinking. “The other matter,” he said. “What is the King to you?”
I paused to consider the formal address and his intent. “He’s my best friend.”
“What are you to him?”
“The same.”
“The plague has dulled a number of my faculties but not my vision. I see the way you look at each other.”
“That doesn’t matter. Before my mother, you no doubt looked at another in a similar way.”
“How quick you are to dismiss the heart’s import,” he said.
“Merely the implication you suggest,” I said.
“And what do you think that is?”
“The possibility I could be his intended—which he hasn’t expressed—and although you know very well the traditions to which he’s bound.”
“You believe that’s my only reason for asking?”
“Why else? Any reference you ever made to my future in this regard involved finding a man of good station, although I can’t imagine you hoped for better than one with a modest title, at least some wealth.” I was being cruel, but I did speak honestly. Father had been practical rather than emotional about these matters, although I knew he had married my mother for love. She’d loved him, too, but I knew that wasn’t the reason alone. She’d once said of him, “He was the only one who’d have me as I was.” This, I felt, was my sad inheritance, from one strange woman to the next.
He winced at the same time my ears started to ring.
“Secret,” Father said, “does he love you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“It doesn’t matter. We both know his fate here,” I said.
Father’s head bobbed as he struggled to look at me. “So if I weren’t the son of a chimney sweep, you’d have hope?”
“Even if you were landed and titled, that would make no difference.”
“Why not?” he asked.
All went quiet. Father handed his notebook to me.
My mute tongue wanted to lash him with a truth that would sting. Instead, I wrote, I’m meant for a different life, that’s all.
Still want to attend high academy. Still my scholarly pet, he wrote.
With that, he eased the tension between us. He patted my hand and turned to the waiting carriage. Better I hadn’t ruined the end of the evening with what I wanted to say: Unlike what my mother did for Father, I would spare Nikolas the embarrassment of a peculiar wife.
Dear Miss Riven,
Please accept my apologies for my tardy reply. I found myself detained in Prev as I negotiated the acquisition of the—oh, I’m bound to secrecy, aren’t I? Suffice it, then, of a codex once thought lost to history, only to be discovered in a box of linens purchased by a walleyed churnmaid. And yet, stranger things have happened.
Indeed, I have followed accounts of this Plague of Silences. I’m glad to know you fare well and bravely. Gruesome affliction to rob one of the precious faculties of speech and hearing. This I fear more than buboes, vomiting, and leeches combined. I cannot remember the last time I endured more than a day without a hearty conversation. Weeks, months? Unthinkable!
Now to your inquiry.
What do I remember of Zavet Molnik, as I knew her then?
She was beautiful in the way of exotic creatures, fearsome even, with hair that could not have been more black, skin no more flawless, eyes no more rare in color. That violet, an enchantment. Ah, this—during a switch between classes, early spring it was, the leaves that newborn green, she set down her books to fix the combs in her hair and then it fell, a lustrous (pun intended) drape upon her shoulders. The fellows walking with me froze upon the sight, struck dumb, and though she looked toward our direction, she seemed to take no notice.
I thought her lonely, as I never saw her in social company, unless there was some obligatory function to attend. She might have had a friend outside our academic circles; I do hope so. The majority disdained her, her audacity to step outside of her proper place, and those who took an interest, and there were some, lacked the courage to approach the odd beast in her solitude.
For those men, the judgment of others was intimidating, but so was she. Your mother possessed a formidable genius, which you know, and an iron will, which you might not. The dismissiveness and derision leveled at her when she spoke in seminar discussions would have brought a meek man to tears. She shed none. How she held herself against the ire, I don’t know. It was as if—yes—as if that was not the worst she’d endured and her very life depended on bearing it.
Even though she wasn’t well liked, I am sorry to tell you that, Miss Riven, she commanded our respect in due time. She couldn’t earn what was owed her, frankly. We recognized we were dealing with no ordinary animal, and her genius and tenacity are what secured her place among the best minds. Strange, isn’t it, the exceptions men make when it serves their interests or fancies.<
br />
Another memory, several years later. I happened upon two former classmates at a tavern in Kirsau, and of course we began to reminisce and ask of our fellows. Ferrill—tragic halitosis he always had, who could blame his wife for cuckolding him?—I digress—well then, he said Brandemere had turned up dead, found buried in his garden, and how chilling was that. How so, other than the obvious? Thorpe and I asked.
Don’t you remember, he said, that night in the library? Some of us were late studying. Zavet Molnik was off in the shadows and surprised us when she rose to return a book, then gave us pause as she stood in the moonlight coming through the window. Brandemere shouted, Give us a howl, and we laughed. Her back was to us and she said, As you will when the shovel meant to bury you brains you first? Live full these next seven years.
At that, I did remember, as well that several of the fellows made a game of it, teasing her. I dared not, superstitious as I am. Not once did she turn to look, responding to each voice, each prognostication more specific than the last. To my knowledge, Brandemere met the worst fate, and the rest, well, several foretellings have in fact come true.
Coincidence, yes?
I haven’t received word from Fewmany since early June. He sent a letter then informing me he was leaving for an extended trip. He didn’t say where, which is unlike him, and strange, too, that he has fallen silent. I confess, I am worried. Also perplexed, because along with the letter, he sent his atrocious dog for me to attend.
I would gladly oblige more questions if you have them and welcome your correspondence if only to ensure me of your welfare. May we share a conversation again once this unpleasantness is past.
Sincerely,
William Remarque
WEEK 20
THE FIRST WEEK OF NOVEMBER, Nikolas confided in me about the worsening situation outside of Ailliath. A third of Kirsau was under Haaud’s control. Giphia and Ilsace had intensified negotiations to get aid from our kingdom. East of us, Thrigin had blocked Haaud’s advances into their kingdom and had obstructed Haaud’s supply lines into Uldiland.
Nikolas was determined to keep the kingdom out of the war. For now, he had enough advisers willing to work to that end. However, he feared what would happen if he succumbed to the third phase. With Lord Sullyard named as his proxy, whom Nikolas liked and respected although they agreed only half the time, this marginal hold could collapse, even if circumstances remained the same among the allies and enemies beyond our border. As for the plague, Nikolas worried whether the efforts to prepare throughout Ailliath would continue as he intended. He wondered if there might be some who’d prefer he didn’t recover from the sickness. Once he did awaken, in what state would he find the kingdom?
Nikolas was the one who asked Harmyn if there was anything she could do.
From her place on the parlor’s floor, surrounded by colored pencils, she scrutinized him. She chewed the edge of her amulet. I can, but the pain you’ll have might make you wish you hadn’t asked me to do it.
What kind of pain? he asked.
How you felt when your parents died. Maybe worse, she said.
His expression went flat, his thoughts whirring deep.
Can you do the same to me? I asked.
You have to sleep through like everyone else, she said.
Why? I asked.
I can’t risk you, she said.
I realized then not only the danger involved in Nikolas’s request but also that Harmyn knew far more than she revealed. Tell us what you know, I said.
I won’t. I mean to protect you. You have to trust me, she said.
What would it be like? he asked.
Similar to what Wei did with the Guardian warriors. She went into their memories with them and helped them take back their lost pieces. That’s the only way I know to explain it, Harmyn said.
That doesn’t seem so awful, he said.
It depends on what the shadows hold, she said.
Can Secret be with me? As a witness, he said.
The shadows will be very dark, very ugly. I worry how that will affect her, she said.
I don’t care, I said.
What Harmyn said next, she said to me alone. You understand you’d do for him what Aoife did for Leit? The worst things that have happened to Nikolas, you will hear him tell it. As much as you love him, you will feel that measure of his pain. Can you endure it? she asked.
I’ll have to, won’t I? I said to her.
I’ve warned you, she said.
To both of us, she said, Nikolas, think about this. Ask more questions before you decide. If we start, we can stop, but I’m not certain how that would affect you during the sleep later. We can start tomorrow night. You shouldn’t eat much for dinner.
The next evening, at half past eight, Harmyn sat in the parlor with Nikolas and me and sang. No one could hear her, but I felt a thrum behind my eyes, which made me drowsy. Nikolas bobbed his head as if he fought sleep. Harmyn walked across the parlor, pulled a chair away from the wall, and set it under a falling guard.
When we entered Nikolas’s former bedroom, Harmyn placed a lit candelabra on the floor next to three cushions. Inside, there was a bed, a wardrobe, and a table covered in glasses. Although it was cold enough for a fire, none warmed the chamber.
She gestured for us to sit. Our ears opened with a ringing and a pop. A horse’s whinny and a chilly gust entered the open window.
“Secret,” he said, reaching for my hand.
“Are you ready?” I asked him.
“I must be,” he said.
Harmyn sat across from him, cross-legged, her bare toes visible. She said she was going to lead him to one of his shadows and then to the hole it covered. She warned him he would likely leap from hole to hole. He shouldn’t fight it, or anything he remembered or felt as he did. As his witness, Harmyn reminded me, I was to level no judgment. If I was compelled to ask him questions, they should be open ones. What I agreed to do was sacred and what I heard, I could tell no one else.
“I’m also your witness, Nikolas,” Harmyn said. “Everything you see and feel, I will, too. You can be silent, or you can speak. Understood? So then. We need to be able to see our hands or feet. Feel your fingers and toes. Keep breathing, no matter what happens. Especially you, Secret.”
Moments later, Harmyn placed a tiny sailboat next to Nikolas’s knee.
“Where did you find this?” he asked, a joyful surprise in his voice. Then a darkness entered his eyes; yes, as if a shadow had fallen.
“What do you remember?” Harmyn asked.
“We went to the coast, Mother and my sisters. The manor where we stayed had a lake with a pier. I played there with a boat on a string. I made a friend, a boy my age. We were about five. Roger was a servant’s son, but I didn’t care. My father arrived at some point. Before we were to leave, I gave Roger the boat as a gift. I didn’t know my father saw what I did. That night, Father handed me a sailboat. At first, I thought it was a different one, but it wasn’t. He said the boy couldn’t have it, and neither could I, and he had his valet take it away. I cried to my mother. I could tell she thought what he did was mean, but she told me to obey him. When he found me with her, he said, ‘Leave the charity to your mother.’ ”
“How did you feel?” Harmyn asked.
Nikolas traced the little boat stern to bow. His breathing hitched. “Sad because I wanted my friend to have it. Angry because I wasn’t allowed to. Shame because I disappointed him.”
Harmyn watched him, then asked, “Where are you now?”
“One of the wards. I’d awakened early and decided to race my horse on the green before school. On my way home, I took a different route than usual, through a poor ward. I remember the old privies and buildings in need of repair and the tired looks, which seemed deeper than a lack of sleep.” He sighed. “None of that has changed. It’s worse now, with the plague. That morning, I got lost and found myself in an alley, and in a doorway was a little girl. There was a box next to her, and matches strewn all over, as
if she’d been robbed. I went to check on her, and when I touched her, she was stiff. I carried her to the street. A man took her from me. Asked nothing.”
“You never told me this,” I said.
“I meant to. I was too shocked, and then, well, I couldn’t.”
“When did it happen?”
He wouldn’t look at me. “You probably don’t remember. We took a long walk after school in the woods. Not long after you turned fourteen,” he said.33
“I remember. That’s the day my mother died,” I said.
“I found the little girl that morning,” he said.
“Who did you tell?” Harmyn asked.
“My parents. Mother promised to talk to one of the women’s leagues about it. But Father,” Nikolas said, as he began to shift from side to side, “Father said he was going to make sure my guards kept me away from those places. He had no idea how often I went off to ride alone. And then he turned back to his longsheet, flipped it up like a shield, and said, ‘Sometimes death does favors.’ ”
Nikolas began to pace. “She was a little girl. Four, maybe five. Pretty long brown lashes. She smelled as if no one had washed her dress. I carried her like a contorted doll, and I never learned her name.” A pause, then, “No, not there. I don’t want to think about that.”
“You do it now, or while you’re asleep during the plague with someone else leading the kingdom,” Harmyn said.
“You don’t have to, Nikolas. You can stop,” I said, although as I did, I wasn’t sure for whose sake. I could feel the black energy seep out of him, into me.
“You can’t escape this. You must go in,” Harmyn said.
Away from the candles, Nikolas became a shape stalking the room. “The carriage stops. The windows are open. It’s a beautiful day, so breezy, there’s hardly a stink from the horses around us. I can hear a newsbox. Father’s Tell-a-Bell rings and he starts listing his toll.”
“How old are you?” Harmyn asked.
“Seven.”
“What happened?” Harmyn asked.
The Plague Diaries Page 39