The Dragon Throne Read Online Free Page B

sign. He reassured Ester, silently forming the words, “Don’t fear for me.”
    Some people said the right combination of syllables could catch the Devil’s attention. Sometimes Ester was frightened at the way words in the open books of ancient learning seemed to dance and shift in candlelight. Her father was a wise man, and had explained to his daughter the dignified life of a Stoic, but now Ester wondered if too many hours with a pagan philosopher might have put his soul in jeopardy.
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    By any purely rational measure, Ester realized, her father was close to death.
    Before nightfall it began to rain outside, the soft music of falling drops against the wooden window shutters. Reginald searched his patient’s chest with his fingers, pressing gently. Her father gave a moan without waking, and Reginald met Ester’s eyes.
    â€œThe damage may be great,” he said. “As I had feared.”
    He sat with Ester long into the night, as the candles burned down and began to gutter. Ida set out a new candle, a long white taper, as Bernard sank from a restless half-awakened state to an uneasy slumber, and at last into a deep torpor, sweat beading on his brow.
    Ester silently renewed her vow to go on a pilgrimage to Rome. But it was enough to challenge her faith, the way her father’s breath slowed down so completely. He held it and kept it shut within his lungs to the count of twenty of her own heartbeats before he exhaled again—a long, phlegm-choked sigh.
    Besides, her vow, while solemn, had been rash. She had neither gold nor rich jewels. While it was true she dressed herself with care, she had stitched her gown herself, with her own silver thimble and thread.
    No one in the queen’s court had a robust purse. A pilgrimage to Rome was a costly undertaking, requiring horses and armed protectors. Such a journey was beyond her means, and beyond her hopes.
    As though to remind her of this, Heaven seemed to chide Ester for her idle promise. Her father lifted a hand to point out something only he could see, some vision in his fever dream.
    His hand faltered.
    And fell back.

8
    AT SOME HOUR WELL INTO THE NIGHT, Reginald felt for the pulse of his patient, made the sign of the cross as he muttered a prayer, and said, “I’ll be here when day breaks.” He hesitated, and added, “Ester, you should seek rest yourself.”
    She used a soft linen to gently bathe her father’s face and hands. Our Lady’s watchfulness upon the living never ends, Ester knew.
    But she felt some sympathy for the doctor, well-meaning for all his pride. “Perhaps your star charts will foretell some joy for you,” she offered, troubled by the shadows under the doctor’s eyes.
    â€œOnly one hope would bring me joy,” the doctor responded, once again touching her hand with his. “Aside from the sound of Bernard’s laughter again, as he betters me at chess.”
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    When they were alone with the sick man, Ida brought Ester a lamb’s-wool shawl against the chill of the spring night.
    Ida de Mie was a year younger than Ester, and likewise unwed. She had stitchwork beside her, an embroidered griffin, pale gray wool against a green field. The fabric was reworked remnants from a minstrel’s tunic, the beefy Rahere le Grand, who had died at table on Saint Stephen’s Day, facedown in his soup. Ida and Ester had refashioned the fine wool, fixing it so that no eye could detect the old thread-holes or the way the fabric was gently faded. Ida and Ester were equally skilled at needlework, and knew the feather and the chain stitch as well as they knew the stories of the Our Lady’s miracles.
    Ida’s parents had both drowned when an ancient foot-bridge across the River Exe had collapsed during the feast of Saint Agatha three winters before. This personal loss had encouraged in Ida a tendency to offer trenchant opinions, none the easier to bear because they were usually