by Ginn Hale
Kiram glanced back. Javier returned his gaze for a moment and then reached out and tucked a curl of Kiram’s hair back behind his ear.
“You’ll get a little less afraid of him as time goes on,” Javier said. “And he’ll want to please you more and more.”
Kiram knew Javier was taking advantage of the moment but this once Kiram didn’t admonish him. He didn’t know if it was the gentleness of Javier’s expression or simply that he seemed to deserve some kind of comfort.
Kiram knew that if Javier pulled him close, kissed him, or even slipped his strong hands into his clothes, he would have allowed it. More than allowed it.
But Javier only smiled and then turned away to the door of the stall.
“Wash up before breakfast,” Javier told him and then he left the stable. Kiram was both irritated and relieved. Then Firaj lifted his tail and dropped a tremendous pile of pungent excrement only inches from Kiram’s boot.
“You beast,” Kiram muttered to the horse. It seemed to him that Firaj looked quite pleased with himself.
Chapter Sixteen
The next month Kiram kept so busy that he could hardly remember a time when he didn’t ride, train, or spend long hours poring over medical papers that Scholar Donamillo handed him in response to his many questions about Fedeles’ condition.
As crisp fall winds set in and the days grew shorter and the nights long and cold, Kiram began to see certain advances.
He became familiar with Firaj’s sense of humor, as well as the gelding’s favorite places to be brushed, his preferences in apples, and the astonishing amount of filth he could accumulate in his hooves.
Kiram’s riding skills improved as well, though it was not always obvious in Master Ignacio’s classes. At times when Master Ignacio sneered at him and snapped criticisms ceaselessly, Kiram’s nervousness undermined him. He tended to confuse the command for a trot with that of a prance. At least once a week he and Firaj were out of step with the other riders.
But now Kiram didn’t allow small mistakes to panic him. That was the one thing he had learned from observing Javier handle Lunaluz when they went riding together each morning. No matter what happened, whether Lunaluz was obstinate or nervous, Javier remained calm and firm. His collected manner always settled his mount.
That knowledge served Kiram well. He controlled Firaj with more and more consistency each day. None of the few errors he made enraged Master Ignacio enough to strike him again.
He improved in battle practice as well.
When pitted against his fellow second-year students his focus rarely wavered and his speed gave him an edge. He managed to best both Ollivar and Ladislo two falls out of three. The week after that, Kiram even managed to pin Chilla and then Nestor, which resulted in Nestor calling him ‘a wily beast’ and another exchange of coins between Elezar and Javier.
Then they’d advanced from hand-to-hand combat to duels with wooden swords. Javier made every motion look easy, when he demonstrated the sword stances. In reality Kiram discovered that it was a challenge just to make himself aim his blows at his opponent’s body and not his blade. The whole idea of it—that he was teaching himself to drive a sword into another man’s heart—appalled him. Kiram couldn’t delude himself about the nature of swordplay. Men trained with swords for the single purpose of hardening their bodies and minds to the cruelty of killing.
Kiram hated the idea, particularly when his opponent was Nestor.
He simply could not take any pleasure in exploiting Nestor’s poor vision to murder him, not even when the mortal wound was no more than a tap across his chest or neck. Nestor unfailingly complimented him on his strikes and that only made Kiram more uncomfortable.
At times Kiram found it frightening to watch Javier and Elezar demonstrate techniques. They were both skilled with blades and though they were friends, when they fought neither of them held back. They had both drawn blood on more than one occasion.
Elezar struck with so much force that he often cracked the tip off of Javier’s wooden blade. He charged in with a shout and always took the offensive. His raw, muscular power drove his attacks. Sometimes Kiram thought nothing could wear Elezar down.
“He’s like a bull,” Nestor whispered. “You hit him and it just makes him madder.”
Kiram nodded, though his attention was focused on Javier.
Unlike Elezar, he rarely relied on sheer muscle and he never overextended his thrusts. He looked so relaxed and his smile was so assured that his hundreds of parries and strikes seemed effortless. But when Kiram really studied Javier’s form he could see that Javier was constantly working at Elezar’s defenses. He was constantly moving around him, testing and pushing him. Javier was a master of footwork. He never stood still, but always edged subtly in and out of Elezar’s strike range.
He drew Elezar out, slowly wearing him down with precise blow after blow. He didn’t underestimate Elezar’s speed the way Atreau often did. Instead he restrained himself, patiently whittling away at Elezar’s energy, waiting for him to get clumsy and make a mistake.
When that moment came, Javier’s entire demeanor changed. His smile dropped. He lunged past Elezar’s wide swing and punched his cracked blade into the thick padding that protected Elezar’s heart. Almost instantly he jerked back out of Elezar’s reach. In that moment, just as he pulled back from the killing strike all of the strain of the fight showed in his face. Javier looked both sick and stricken. Then he was smiling again.
“You’re dead, my friend,” Javier told Elezar.
“You barely...” Elezar looked down at the chest of his padded jacket. A thick white lump of wool protruded from the gash in the canvas. “Well, damn it. Who’s going wed those six pregnant whores now?”
“I’m sure they’ll manage to find some other dolt,” Javier replied.
Nestor leaned a little closer to Kiram and whispered, “Mother would kill Elezar if that really happened.”
“How do you know it hasn’t?”
“Oh, I’d know,” Nestor assured him and Kiram took his word for it. After all, Nestor had a knack for collecting all the whispers and rumors that circulated around the academy. He had kept Kiram apprised of all of the love letters that Atreau received, as well as the rumors of Holy Father Habalan’s affair with a milkmaid.
And surprisingly, he was also one of the only reliable sources that Kiram could find for information concerning the curse that plagued the Tornesal family .
Later, when they sat side by side in the library studying, Kiram decided Nestor’s insights might be just as good as anyone else’s.
Kiram had expected to uncover dozens of references to the curse in academy diaries and biographies. Certainly every other minor affliction of the powerful Tornesal family had been noted. Letters and journals abounded with mentions of fever passions, congenital cruelty, and bloodlust. But until the most recent writings there wasn’t a single suggestion of a curse destroying the Tornesals.
The curse was apparently a new phenomenon. According to Nestor, it had first struck one of Javier’s uncles eighteen years ago. The curse never afflicted the Sagradas or the Fueres despite the fact that they had intermarried with the Tornesals extensively. At the same time it hunted down inheriting women like Fedeles’ mother even when they had married out of the family.
“It’s like it knows which of them could inherit the dukedom and goes after them. Doesn’t that seem suspicious?” Kiram studied a painting of the Tornesal family tree. The vast branches narrowed to a single line bearing Javier’s name.
“Maybe the dukedom is what really makes them Tornesals. You know, like cured ham and goose fat makes a prince’s pie. Without them, it’s just bean stew in a crust.” Nestor turned a page of his own book and Kiram caught sight of the title: One Thousand Royal Feasts and Banquets. “I overheard Holy Father Habalan saying that if Javier would only turn the power of the white hell over to the royal bishop then the curse would be lifted.”
“What do you think he meant by that exac
tly?” Kiram wondered. “It sounds almost like blackmail or a threat.”
Nestor blanched and then shook his head.
“I’m sure that’s not the way he meant it. He probably thinks, like a lot of people do, that the white hell has gotten a taste for Tornesal blood and now it wants them all.”
“Why would it wait eighty-two years for that?”
“Maybe Tornesals are an acquired taste, like tomatoes,” Nestor had replied. “I used to hate tomatoes when I was young but just yesterday I had one and I thought it didn’t taste so bad.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Kiram replied.
“Doesn’t sound likely?” Nestor asked.
“Not from what I’ve read.”
Kiram had dredged through hundreds of Cadeleonian texts searching for mentions of curses. All the descriptions bore striking similarities. They were dated from the time of King Nazario Sagrada or earlier, and curses were always described as Haldiim in origin. They were always acts of retaliation for a wrong done.
One fragile text described how the souls of two murdered Haldiim children had become a curse and ravaged the house and lands of the baron who killed them until a Haldiim witch—Kiram recognized the description as a Bahiim—had trapped the curse and bound its fury into the wood of a great oak tree where it could do no more harm.
The mention of a Bahiim dispelling the curse had offered Kiram some hope that he could, at last, get accurate information regarding curses. He’d immediately written to his uncle’s husband, Alizadeh, to ask what he knew, but he’d not yet received a response.
The next two weeks offered Kiram no time at all to contemplate curses or even mechanisms. In addition to riding with Javier, constant battle training, and learning the formal rules of engagement, his time had recently been taken up by fittings for the leather cuirass, byrnie, and gauntlets he would be wearing for his fights; he was also drilling on horseback for the opening parade through the city of Zancoda.
The last two weeks before the tournament the majority of scholars had given up their class times to allow Master Ignacio to keep the students in constant training. Only Scholar Blasio and Scholar Donamillo refused. Scholar Blasio gave extensive lectures, but also tolerated a great deal of napping. Kiram guessed that it was just to spite Master Ignacio and he warmed to Scholar Blasio more for it.
However the last week before the autumn tournament Scholar Donamillo also excused his class. Though he asked Kiram to help him carry several books from his classroom to the infirmary.
The air smelled of liniment and sweat. Dozens of young men sprawled across the medical cots. Most sported ugly bruises and cuts or wore bandages over their various sprains. Many seemed to be sleeping, though one fourth-year student looked perfectly healthy and seemed to be using the time to read. Kiram felt a little awed that Donamillo had managed to teach his classes for so long and still treat all the bumped, bruised, and sprained youths in his infirmary.
“This way, to my office.” Donamillo led Kiram past the cots and between two huge black screens into the space where he kept not only his hulking mechanical cures but also a desk and shelves overflowing with books and medical instruments. Light glinted off the glass panes of his mechanical cure, lending a radiance to the scholar’s deeply lined face.
“I hope you’re managing to find time for the Crown Challenge.” Scholar Donamillo laid several tomes down on his already cluttered desk. He indicated with a wave of his hand that Kiram ought to rest the books he carried anywhere on the wooden shelves.
“Not so much right now.” Kiram glanced away. He hadn’t worked on his steam engine for nearly a month. The Tornesal curse was just so much more important than winning a challenge. People had died because of the curse. Fedeles was going mad because of it.
“I know it isn’t a classroom subject, but I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about your mechanical cures?” Kiram asked.
Scholar Donamillo offered him only the hint of a smile.
“Hoping to get out of Master Ignacio’s grip for several hours?”
“No, sir. I really do want to know more. I’ve been trying to work it out on my own, reading all the texts you’ve recommended but—”
“I think it might be allowable. Just this once, you understand.” Scholar Donamillo gave him a stern look.
“Yes, sir.” Kiram almost bowed and Scholar Donamillo’s countenance softened slightly. When he relaxed, Scholar Donamillo’s resemblance to Scholar Blasio increased. For a moment Kiram imagined that he could see just what Scholar Blasio would be like fifteen years from now: far less permissive, but still intelligent and kind.
“Look here.” Scholar Donamillo beckoned Kiram closer to the two huge mechanical cures. “Study them and tell me what you can.”
Kiram spent the next two hours with Scholar Donamillo, examining the faceted spheres of the mechanical cures and studying the stacks of copper plates that generated the mechanisms’ charges.
While both mechanisms were very similar Kiram noticed that one of them contained a harness while the other had none. The thick panes of glass that made up one of the spheres seemed darker than the other. The edges looked sooty and black. The glass of the other mechanical cure looked milky. Kiram also noticed that the markings etched into the metal supports of the two mechanisms differed greatly.
At first Kiram had thought that they were marks to aid in the assembly of the mechanisms, but as he looked closer he realized that they resembled the symbols drawn across Javier’s floor.
“What are these?” Kiram asked at last.
“Prayers,” Scholar Donamillo replied, as if it were a perfectly reasonable response.
Kiram stared at him. “Prayers?”
Scholar Donamillo nodded.
“That’s completely contrary to the philosophy of mechanism.” Kiram frowned at the black lines. “It’s turning science back into superstition.”
“Half of medicine is faith, Kiram. I have immense admiration for mechanism. It’s a great achievement to create tools that will serve all people regardless of their breed or religion. But these mechanical cures must do more than be admirable.” Scholar Donamillo traced a sinuous black symbol. “These mechanisms keep Fedeles Quemanor alive. That’s all that matters in the end.”
“I didn’t mean to criticize.” Kiram gazed at the fine, flowing black symbols and the thin copper wires that threaded through the harnesses.
Now he couldn’t help but feel a little excited and curious about why this particular union of science and faith had proved so effective when previous mechanical cures had done nothing for the Tornesals. But then neither had other prayers. Even holy invocations issued by bishops had failed to stop the curse.
“What do these prayers say?” Kiram asked.
“It would be easier to tell you what they do than what they say.”
“What do they do, then?”
Scholar Donamillo stepped a little closer to Kiram, his expression grave.
“Are you willing to keep a secret, Kiram Kir-Zaki? Can I trust you?”
Kiram nodded. Scholar Donamillo smiled just a little.
“Do you know anything about transfusions?” Scholar Donamillo asked in a whisper.
“I read a mention of a physician who tried to treat a dying boy by siphoning blood from his mother and father down into his veins. The boy lived for a short while but eventually died of blood poisoning.”
“This is a different kind of transfusion, but similar in concept. Every month or so, I give a little of my life to Fedeles. I believe it disguises his Tornesal blood and keeps the curse at bay. It isn’t a cure…not yet. He still has an extreme reaction but I have seen improvements in him over the last three years. He’s talking more now and he even has moments of rational thought.”
“You give him your life?” The magnitude of it stunned Kiram. Wasn’t that what Javier had said a month ago? The only way he could save Fedeles was to sacrifice his own life? Kiram would never have expected anything like this f
rom Scholar Donamillo. He’d always seemed so reserved and distant.
“It’s the best I can offer him for the time being.” Scholar Donamillo kept his voice low. “At first I had thought that Javier might be a better match for him but Javier isn’t…compatible with the mechanical cures. Needless to say, what I’m doing is not something that Holy Father Habalan or many of my colleagues would approve of. So you must keep this a secret. They may tolerate the white hell when it’s wielded by a duke, but here in the northern counties they still hang common men for witchcraft.”
Kiram blanched at the thought of Scholar Donamillo being dragged to a scaffold and hanged.
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear on my life,” Kiram whispered.
Scholar Donamillo seemed amused by Kiram’s unsolicited oath and he felt suddenly embarrassed. It was something a little boy would have said.
“Do you think there’s any way I could help you, sir?”
“In fact I have been thinking about that for some time now. That mechanism that you’re building, it’s an engine of some kind, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Scholar Donamillo pointed to the large hand cranks at the bases of the mechanical cures.
“Right now I have to crank these mechanical cures by hand or have Genimo do it for me. But if I had an engine, that might make all the difference. I might be able to maintain the treatment long enough to actually drive the curse out of Fedeles.” Scholar Donamillo gazed intently at Kiram. “Would you be willing to become my accomplice, Kiram? I will understand if you aren’t willing to take the risk…”
“I’d be honored to help, in any way I can, sir.”
“Good.” Scholar Donamillo patted Kiram’s shoulder and when he smiled at Kiram the deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth lifted so that he looked much younger. “I knew I’d made the right decision about you.”