Chapter Five

Helena did not improve.

Instead she grew worse and worse, murmuring to herself or staring in silence for hours on end. Her son had it as well and this morning the toddler had felt warm to Illian's touch.

She wet the cool, water-and-herb soaked cloth and laid it on the sick woman's chest. Helena had also developed a hacking cough.

It was only a matter of time before everyone in the town fell ill. Sharing a well and living in such close quarters allowed disease to reach its greedy fingers into every home.

"Milady!" Fania burst into the mostly-empty storeroom, which had been temporarily converted into the sick ward. "Old Griken died last night and now his daughter and his family are ill as well."

Illian cringed. She rubbed her eyes and looked up.

"The same?"

"Griken did not have the rash. But his daughter's family does and they said he complained of feeling hot before he went to sleep."

"They must be brought here to stay with the others who are ill. All those with these symptoms must come," Illian said, rising and picking up the bowl of tepid herb-water. She cast a sorrowful glance at her first patient. "I will go see to her little one."

"Milady…" Fania frowned. "You must be careful. You will make yourself sick as well."

Illian looked at her for a moment, then turned away. "My people need me."

She dropped off the herb-water in the kitchen to be replaced with hot water. Givir gave her a worried smile as he took the pot.

"There are many ill?"

Illian sighed. "More every hour."

The man nodded, his kindly face wrinkling with distress.

"Thank-you for your help, Givir."

He shrugged, turning back to his tub of scalding water. "There's little I can do, milady."

"I as well, I fear." She wiped off her hands and hurried down the hall to her old quarters. The toddler lay on her bed, sleeping. He was almost lost to sight among the folds of blankets.

"Eh, Alsef, how do you feel?" Illian slid her arms under him and carefully lifted his thin body.

He blinked, his bright blue eyes wandering and trying to focus. He rubbed his forehead on her shoulder, whimpering. Illian's stomach twisted as her fingers detected the slight bump of the rash beginning on his smooth skin.

"It's okay, lic ehel…" Illian touched his hair, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Her mother would have known this fearsome disease. She would have known what combination of herbs and loving care would give these suffering people their best chance to survive.

"I'm sorry," Illian whispered, resting her cheek on the top of the child's head. "You just have me."

"Easy." Eomund gripped his rider's forearms, steadying the man as he slid down from his horse. "How's the knee?"

"Eh, I've had worse." The man patted his horse and limped toward the circle of men around the fire.

Eomund made quick work of unsaddling the horse and turning him loose with the others to graze. He glanced around the herd to make sure none were missing, then moved back toward the campfire.

Adin may have had worse—the man was ten years older—but Eomund doubted it, considering the man's riding ability before his current injury. Eomund shook his head; he did not like the redness and swelling that lingered around the man's sliced knee.

Wild animals' teeth were notoriously dirty weapons and infection could cause permanent damage. They needed a quality healer as soon as possible; someone like Illian.

Would she be glad to see him?

Eomund ran a hand over his face as he crouched on the cold turf next to his men. He doubted it. Even after two weeks, her words still stung.

"Why the horse-face, commander?"

He glanced up; Adin grinned at him through a mouthful of rye bread.

"Aw, he's just wanting his missus." Another rider snorted and wrapped his cloak tighter around his broad shoulders. "Those young ones are so sentimental."

"You're just jealous." Eomund smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"Me? Jealous?" The rider smirked. "What's not to be jealous of?"

"Careful." A blue-cloaked man looked at Eomund with solemn dark eyes, his expression one of gentle amusement. "Milord knows how to silence such careless talk."

"And I will." Eomund smiled, folding a leg beneath him and sitting back. "But perhaps Olke merely needs a warm meal to restore his wisdom."

"Maybe you'd best finish him off." Adin glanced at the graying sky. "It might be a while, yet."

Eomund looked up into the twilight as a cool, wet flake brushed his stubbled cheek.

"How many?" Illian paused in her frantic work to stare at Fania.

"Sixty, milady. And many more family members exposed."

"Sixty." She breathed out slowly, glancing around the crowded storeroom. There was little enough room for those already ill, but that could not be helped. The great hall, heated by the central fireplace, was still the warmest place available.

Illian picked up another pail of water, stuffing several blankets under her arm. "Do the best you can, Fania. And tell Givir we'll need more hot water."

"Aye, milady." The older woman shook her head, turning back to her work.

Pallets nearly hid the rush-covered floor of the great hall. Illian sighed, setting down the pail and brushing back her hair. She took a moment to stretch as she surveyed the rows of patients before her; her entire body ached and her eyes struggled to focus.

Illian turned as her assistant healer approached. "How many have received inhelis?"

"Only those who arrived before yesterday, milady."

No more than fifteen, then. She fought the temptation to sit down and dissolve into tears. Crying never helped heal anyone.

"Let's get to work, then. There are others who will need our help."

Would the snow never end?

Eomund buried his cold fingers in the folds of his woven cloak, speaking to Driten to urge him on. The poor beast had been shoving a path through rising snowdrifts for the whole day and most of last night.

It could not be helped. As a member of the royal stables he was in better shape than most of the other mounts.

Eomund twisted in his saddle to look back at the line of riders plodding doggedly in the cleared track. Twenty yards behind the last rider the path was already beginning to blow shut.

There was nothing to do but keep moving forward. Somewhere ahead—it could be miles, hours even, but ahead—lay the warmth of Edoras.

He hated snow. It was beautiful, true, but it smothered landmarks in its silent descent. Even experienced riders caught in such a storm had become lost and never returned.

More than one widow in Edoras bore mute testimony to this sad reality.

Eomund shook falling snow off his shoulders. He did not intend for Illian to be one more victim of the harshness of this land, though at the moment she might think it a favor. She had lost enough already.

"Milord."

He glanced back, pulling up as Railf nudged his mount beside Driten.

"Adin's knee is growing stiffer and the others do not fare much better," Railf said, his voice low. "How much further, do you think?"

Eomund turned and squinted through the driving snow ahead. It obscured all but the nearest hills.

It took eight hours riding in average conditions from their campsite to Edoras. They'd already been riding nearly twelve. He'd been expecting for the past two hours to see the city rising above the hills; they had to be close.

Eomund turned back to his friend. "Not much further, I think."

Railf looked at him at moment, nodded, and turned his horse back to fall in line. Eomund sighed and nudged his exhausted mount on.