Banners in the Wind Page 0,88

glances.

Failla changed her mind. She wouldn't go to see Kerith just yet. She would visit Aremil instead. Yesterday, Master Welgren had planned some fresh brew to stimulate his senses. Ostrin send there'd been some change for the better.

She followed the dark line across the cobbles where the snow was trampled to slush. The great hall's door stood open; bombastic centrepiece of this range of buildings rebuilt in ornate Tormalin style, to proclaim Garnot's wealth on his accession to the dukedom. Failla hurried through the empty, echoing hall.

Steps descended from the far door to the lawns of the inner ward, still swathed in pristine white. Ahead, the inner keep had been the ducal sanctuary. Rebuilt in an elaborate style, its furnishings proclaimed Garnot's artistic sensibility, with fabrics, ceramics, glassware and metalwork brought from southernmost Aldabreshi, and from Inglis to the distant north-east. The finest artists had been commissioned to decorate its plastered walls and ceilings. Failla ran up the central stone staircase, an architectural marvel in its own right.

Above, the elegant reception rooms had been stripped of their finery to accommodate pallets for the sick. Master Welgren had fewer patients now but those remaining were the most grievously injured. Walking soft-footed between the sleeping men and women, Failla exchanged silent smiles with the townswomen nursing them. She sighed as she noted a sheet-wrapped corpse awaiting removal with the infinite patience of the dead. Though that grievous news would at least release one family from the agonies of hope.

She had seen that pain in Tathrin's eyes, when he had visited Aremil every morning and evening of the festival. Master Welgren had hoped Tathrin's presence, his voice, his grip on Aremil's hand, might rouse him from this eerie sleep. But Aremil hadn't stirred and all Failla could do was take Tathrin to her bed and offer whatever comforts her warmth and love might provide.

Then Tathrin had been forced to leave, to bear all the burdens of his next perilous venture alone. Failla couldn't even send him her own love and assurances. She couldn't contemplate conveying such intimacies through Kerith, as she had done with Aremil's goodwill. If only he would wake up.

Taking a resolute breath, Failla opened the door to the room in the keep's south-east corner. Once this had been Garnot's presence chamber, with portraits of his ancestors admiring him from the grey walls. Now the cobalt and white floor tiles were cracked and chipped, the marble table cluttered with instruments and medicaments. Two plain beds replaced the luxuriously upholstered chairs; one for Welgren and one for whichever patient had most constant need of his attention.

'Oh.' She halted, taken aback.

Kerith sat watching Serafia as she carefully spooned bacon broth between Aremil's slack lips. He lay propped on feather pillows, as limp as the doll that their Aunt Derou had sewn for Anilt's festival gift. The faintest suggestion of soiled linen hung in the air beneath the scent of dried flowers.

'He swallows.' Kerith shook his head, mystified.

'Master Welgren says that's proof he wants to live.' Serafia refilled her spoon.

'How long can his body endure this?' Kerith's stern face twisted with apprehension.

Serafia hesitated, soup trickling back into the bowl. 'Master Welgren fears a sudden decline cannot be far off.'

Failla tried to curb her irritation as she entered. 'He says not to betray such misgivings in Aremil's hearing.'

Kerith rose to his feet. 'Is there news? From Parnilesse or Marlier?'

'No,' Failla snapped. 'I came to see Aremil.' She moved closer and brushed a lank strand of hair from his pale forehead. Was it her imagination or did she feel some slight pressure against her fingers? Was he was responding to her touch?

'Branca must attempt to rouse him,' she said suddenly.

Kerith had gone to the tall leaded window that overlooked the fountain. He rounded on her. 'You, of all people, would propose such a thing?'

In that instant, Failla recoiled from a dizzying vision. It was night-time in the keep, a chance encounter on the servants' back stair. Kerith was embracing Serafia. Failla could feel all his longing, desperate to ease the ache of his loneliness. She could feel Serafia's blood rush through her veins, physical desires repressed for so long burning deep within her. As Kerith's hand tightened on her waist, Serafia guided it upwards to cup her modestly bodiced breast.

Then Kerith's tense passion was overwhelmed by guilt and self-loathing. All he could feel was Failla's hurt, her terror and humiliation as he forced his questing mind into her memories. He had used his Artifice to strip