Did Kasia have enough, having so recently recovered from the ordeal of the storm? He didn’t even dare ask Juvana her opinion; her presence verified his fears.
He never left the bedside, except for essential trips. Juvana ordered a pallet for herself to sleep on. Melongel looked in; so did Minnarden, offering to cover for Robinton so that he could get some sleep.
Robinton refused. He had promised to care for Kasia, and he would. She had to get well. She had to.
But she did not. Just before dawn on the fifth day of her burning fever and hacking cough, when Melongel and Clostan had joined the vigil, she opened her eyes, smiled at Robinton leaning over her and, with a sigh, closed them. And was still.
“No, no. No. No. Kasia. You can’t leave me alone.”
He was shaking her, trying to rouse her, when he felt Juvana’s hands pulling him away. He clutched Kasia to him, stroking her hair, her cheeks, trying to coax life back into her body.
It took Melongel and Clostan to pull him away from her, while Juvana arranged her on the bed. And Clostan forced a potion down his throat.
“We did all we could, Rob, all we could. It’s just sometimes not enough.” And Robinton heard the pain of the healer as plainly as he felt his own.
Captain Gostol sailed the Northern Maid with just Vesna and two others to man her – his crew was also decimated by the fever.
It was Merelan who sang the final farewell, for Robinton couldn’t speak. But he did play the harp he had so lovingly made his spouse. And when Merelan held the last note until it died away – as his hope had – he flung the harp to join the body of his beloved as it slipped into the sea. The harp gave one last dissonant chord as the wind of its descent strummed the strings. Then all was silent.
Even the wind died down in respect for his loss.
He moved his things back into his bachelor room. Ifor and Mumolon did all they could to bear him company, see that he ate, make him lie down in his bed – for he could seem to do nothing at all. “Got in, get out …” The refrain haunted him, but he had not the energy to make notations. He felt he could never sing, or compose, again. He tried to rouse himself from this immolation in grief, his terrible loss, but all he seemed to do was sink deeper.
Days later, he was sprawled in front of the fire, Ifor and Mumolon having gone elsewhere – either because they had duties or because they could no longer stand to be with him and his grief.
The door swung open and F’lon stood there, staring at him.
Robinton looked up incuriously, noted that the dragonrider was here, and then stared back at the fire.
“I only just heard,” said F’lon, striding into the room and slamming the door behind him. He picked up what was left of the bottle of wine and poured it into a glass, tossing it back. Td’ve come earlier if I’d known.”
Robinton nodded. F’lon peered more closely into his face.
“Say, you really are in a terrible state, aren’t you?”
Robinton didn’t dignify the question with an answer, waving a
hand to send F’lon on his way. He appreciated the dragonrider coming, but F’lon only reminded him of the last time he had seen him: on his espousal day.
“That bad, huh?” F’lon looked around him for more wine.
“Drunk it all up?”
“Drinking doesn’t help.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
Something in F’lon’s tone roused Robinton briefly. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t there any more wine up here? Do I have to go back downstairs to get some?”
F’lon was angry, which annoyed Robinton, so he pointed to the
cupboard. “There should be one more there,” he said.
“You’ve been counting?”
Robinton shrugged and sighed. He watched indifferently as F’lon found the skin, made a disgusted noise as he read the label, but pulled the bung and poured a glass for himself. Then he splashed more into Robinton’s cup.