They rode east, past abandoned fields and empty farmhouses. Past olive groves, neglected and overgrown, the trees dotting the landscape in a distinct crisscross pattern. There were signs of graves everywhere if one cared to look. Sunken earth unmarked by headstones, the grass above impossibly green, fertilized by copious amounts of flesh and blood and sorrow. In some towns, the spirits outnumbered the living.
The farther they traveled, the more it struck Cas what a marvel Palmerin was. The city had not escaped death. The plague graveyard would always serve as a reminder. But the number of dead in relation to the living had been astonishingly low. This was the landscape he was accustomed to. Not the miracle that was his ancestral home. Miracle. Cas shied away from the word. It had been a long time since he had believed in miracles.
Three nights passed. They stayed at inns for two of those nights and camped beneath the stars on the third. As they rode past another deserted village, Bittor very helpfully informed him of the dangers of being a queen’s man. It was a unique court position in that, although Cas had been appointed by King Rayan, his loyalties were to the queen first and foremost. Even if her wishes did not align with the king’s.
Cas tried to unravel that convoluted knot. “That isn’t good.”
“It can be very bad,” Lena agreed. She wore a hooded blue cloak, protection against the cold. Somehow, she had ended up on Cas’ mare. “If you’re not careful.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” Cas said to her, askance.
“When? Who could have known Rayan would ask you? There hasn’t been a queen’s man in Oliveras for a hundred years.”
“That’s because most of them were killed,” Bittor remarked. “No one wants the work.”
“I remember a book in my grandfather’s library . . .” Lena’s expression turned thoughtful. “There was Queen Isabella’s man. He murdered the king’s favorite mistress because the queen wished it. I think he was beheaded.”
Bittor mused, “Wasn’t his horse beheaded too?”
“Yes!” Lena snapped her fingers and pointed at Bittor. “I’d forgotten! His horse was also killed, and both heads were left on pikes outside the castle.”
Bittor whistled. Cas reached up and touched the tender skin at his throat.
“Then there was Queen Sophia’s man,” Lena continued. “He made the mistake of falling in love with his queen. The king, understandably, was displeased.”
“That will not happen here,” Cas said decisively.
Bittor asked, “Did he get the pike too?”
“No. He was castrated.”
Cas and Bittor exchanged a startled glance and sat up very straight in their saddles.
“There are others,” Lena said. “I’ll have to go back and see. I’m sure Rayan forgot it was a cursed position when he offered it to you. It was a horrible night, after all.”
Bittor glanced sidelong at Cas. He said dubiously, “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Beheadings. Castrations. Pikes. Cas could only hope.
On the fourth day, they arrived in Gregoria. Once a bustling university town, it was now quiet. More than half the population had perished, Lena told them as they rode beneath the city gates.
They found the hospital near the University of Oliveras; it had been built to serve the needs of the young scholars and their teachers. A carving above the doors promised to treat the sick, the poor, the old, and the infirm. Inside, it was a large, airy space, elegant archways and windows set high in the stone. Beds lined the walls, sheets crisp and white. Most were empty. A nurse admitted them, then left to search for her superior, Sister Roslyn.
The hospital in Brisa had looked and smelled nothing like this. Cas remembered waking on a filthy pallet in the corner. There had been no sheets on the beds for those fortunate enough to have beds. Blood and worse had covered the stones. And the keening. It had been unspeakable. Cas stared off into the past, not realizing Sister Roslyn had arrived until Lena nudged his arm.
Sister Roslyn was not as helpful as they had hoped. “I arrived ten months ago,” she explained, a brisk, tidy woman not much older than Ventillas. Her robes were the vivid yellow of an egg yolk. Her wimple was the king’s blue. It was short and pointed, secured beneath her chin with a ribbon. “I was not here when your Lady Mari was admitted. It would have been very different then. Every bed filled. Patients on the floor. An equal number of the dead outside, with no one left to bury them. We lost most of our staff. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, gone. That is why I was sent here.”
No different, then, from the hospital in Brisa. Disappointed, Cas said, “The previous head nurse died?”
“Not a nurse. The hospital was run by a doctor. He did not die. He . . . left.”
“Why did he leave?” Lena asked. “When?”
“He was gone when I arrived. As to why, I could not say.” Would not, Sister Roslyn’s expression very clearly indicated.
Cas tried a different path. “Do you keep records of your patients?”
“Yes, of course.” Sister Roslyn looked relieved at the change of topic. “Please follow me.”
She led them through the ward, past the beds and nurses. They dressed similarly. Yellow robes and pointy blue wimples. One nurse had bent to lift a chamber pot from the floor. She caught sight of them, watched their approach until a patient drew her attention away.
Bittor spoke out of the side of his mouth. “She looked like she recognized you. Do you know her?”
Cas shook his head. He’d never seen her before.
Sister Roslyn brought them to a small alcove that held a desk and shelves. She pulled a ledger off a shelf and set it on the desk. “These were meticulous once. See here?”
They crowded around. Sister Roslyn had opened to a page dated just before the pestilence had struck. The entries were tidy, full of useful information: the patients’ names, where they lived, the nature of their ailments, the treatment advised by the doctor. A receipt of payment followed each entry, along with the date the patient left the hospital’s care.
When Sister Roslyn turned a few pages, Cas saw the difference right away. The entries grew less detailed. Sometimes only a name. Before long, even the names disappeared. In their place were tally marks, hastily scratched in, the ink smeared and careless.
Cas said, “One mark, one patient.”
“Yes,” Sister Roslyn admitted quietly. “As I said, we were overrun.”
Bittor had moved away to lean against the wall and fold his arms, watching the other yellow-clad sisters tending to their patients.
“Sister,” Lena said. “Is there anyone left on your staff from before? Someone who might remember?”
Sister Roslyn turned a thoughtful eye to the other nurses. “Sister Ivette was here. One moment, please.”
As soon as she was out of earshot, Cas said, “What is she not telling us about that doctor?”
“I don’t know,” Lena said. “But this hospital has a royal charter. It’s wealthy. You would not leave voluntarily if you were in charge here.”