As Aryn Kol rushed around her chambers, she was lost in too many thoughts to concentrate on the task at hand. Preperations were under way for her late husband's funeral. What was a duchess to do?
"Not that one," she mumbled to herself, tossing aside a velvet brocade gown.
"Nothing is right," she thought. "How can I worry about a dress when I'm more worried about losing my city?"
It had been seven days since her husband, Duke Kasto Kol had died, a victim of the recent epidemic which had spread through Aldeimar like wildfire. No one was safe. At first, the illness had only struck the poor in town, those with little to eat. It steadily made it's way through Merchant's Row, one servant after another, then their masters' families. Now, it came to to the Havlik Estate. Here, it had begun in the kitchens and stables. In one week, they had lost half the household staff. Before she realized what had happened, it had taken her beloved husband.
Married less than a year, Aryn couldn't have foreseen the trouble that lay ahead. Before his death, Kasto had sealed the city, putting in place a quarantine. No outsiders in, and those who were in, had to stay until the epidemic had taken it's last victims.
Survivors had begun burning the dead a fortnight ago. Patrols along the Rumani Road had doubled, posting signs of "Danger: Plague" with a skull and crossbones at the gates of the city. Aldeimar was not like Rumani itself. It had no fortified walls. With only a small, wintry outpost at Lago Beag and the port of Maranath to the North, Rumani and Lago Mor to the West, and only water gypsies to the South, Aldeimar had little to fear. They were protected by the kingdom of Skalny, a set of islands, off the coast. Skalny, though independent from the kingdom of Narod, was a close ally, who frequently patrolled the Aldeimian Sea, protecting Narod's Eastern borders from pirates, mercenaries, and brigands.
But there was no way to protect Aldeimar from this. The plague was a villain more devious than any king or emperor. It struck fast and hard, killing it's victims with 36 hours. The shamans of Maktyr were too far to reach Aldeimar once it had started. And none were able to reach the city once Kasto had closed it down. There was nothing to do but wait.
Slowly, the body count began to wane. Very few infected had survived. What was left were mounds of burnt flesh just outside the city, near the very lake that had protected them. A pounding came at the door.
"Your Grace," came the familiar sound of Captain Ulrik. "A rider from Rumani approaches. Shall we let him pass?"
"No," said Aryn, opening her door. "No, Captain. We cannot send this plague back to Rumani. Have him wait outside the city. Have one of our riders retrieve the message."
Captain Ulrik bowed, touching his chest. "Yes, Your Grace." He stood up, pivoted and walked away with great urgency.
Aryn closed the door gently, and turned to her mirror. Staring into it, she could barely recognize herself. A year ago, she was but a 21 year old girl, excited to be engaged, with little worries but what new frock her brother would bestow upon her. Now, she looked every bit a grown, exhausted leader. She touched her hair, bedraggled with black, fraying curls, flyng loosely from her bun. Her face seemed thinner, her eyes red, and a sallowness to her skin. She placed a hand to her face, running it across her cheek, then attempted to flatten her hair.
"Now then, Duchess," she said to herself. "One worry at a time." She walked to her armoir and began pulling out all her dresses, setting each onto her bed, and staring at them. Her eye came to rest on a deep purple gown. She lifted it up and felt the smooth satin beneath her finger tips, following the filigree pattern along the bodice. She stepped in front of the mirror once more, holding it in front of her. "Yes. This will do."
