The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  "I know it isn't," Gwin said cautiously. "Muol's blessings can be two-edged."

  "Too true!" Aneim paused and then laughed feebly. "And Jaul's certainly are. When you are admitted to the inner circle of family gossip, Gwin Solith, you will hear some of the dark secrets that emerged when we met the Jaulscath on our way to the city."

  Nonplussed, Gwin said, "Oh?"

  "Oh indeed! In Daling, do husbands ever beat their wives?"

  Gwin decided that it was time to change the subject.

  #

  Eventually the expedition turned off the highway onto a narrower track, winding through woodland and so narrow that no more than two could ride abreast. The tension slackened, for this was a rarely-used detour that no one could have anticipated the Tharns choosing. Enemies might still come in pursuit, but there would be none waiting in ambush. Bulion sent Himion ahead with the women and brought up the rear with the rest of the men.

  So Gwin still had no chance for a private talk with him. Worse, she found herself riding alongside Wosion. She suspected the pastor had contrived that. She soon discovered that he believed his office gave him the right to ask very personal questions. Perhaps it did, but she felt that he was sticking his excessively long nose into her private affairs.

  "I do not understand you, Gwin Saj. In Daling you are a wealthy lady, are you not? You owned a prosperous business, you had servants, you had status in the community. Granted that my father is our accepted leader, that does not make him a king. Do you expect to be treated as a queen in the valley?"

  "Of course not."

  "Do you understand that the other women will expect you to work just as hard as they do? From dawn until bedtime, your whole life will be cleaning and washing, tending children and livestock, helping with the crops and—"

  "I am not afraid of hard work!"

  "Your hands are soft, your cheeks are smooth. The summer sun and winter—"

  "I hope I won't have to remove my fancy city shoes when the time comes to trample the grapes?"

  He scowled at her sarcasm, but it did not deter him. Nasty little cripple! If he refused to grow a beard, he at least ought to shave more often.

  "How old are you, Gwin?"

  "Just call me Stepmother. I am twenty-three."

  "Jukion is twenty-four."

  She was going to have to learn an enormous number of names and faces very quickly, but she would not easily forget Jukion, the big one who had floored Kolo Gurshith.

  "So I shall have a grandson older than myself, you mean?" Gwin laughed. "Why should that matter?"

  "You will have more than seventy grandchildren, seven of them already married. You will have a dozen great-grandchildren, with more on the way. My father's fertility is legendary. If he still retains only a fraction of it, you are going to be bearing again very shortly."

  "I welcome the prospect! I love children. I loved being a mother. I still ache for Karn and Naln. Nothing can ever replace them, but I hope I can have more children and rear them in the healthy countryside instead of the city. Do not fret about me, Pastor. I am a grown woman and I know what I am doing." She was not going to mention that she took advice from disembodied voices.

  "If babies are your objective, Gwin Saj—"

  "Women who do not marry usually starve, pastor. Those who do have babies—or does your Zarda lore include some means of escaping the fruits of love?"

  "Of course not. But then why chose a man in his sixties? Tharn Valley can offer you better gambles than that, and so can Daling."

  "You are being offensive!"

  "I have your best interests at heart. I also love my father dearly and do not wish to see him hurt."

  "If you are implying—"

  "No, I am not." However obnoxious Wosion might be, he was also quick-witted. "I do not question your morality, nor your good intentions. It is Father I doubt, not you."

  "Then I fail to understand your conversation. Why not direct your queries to him?"

  Still the pastor was not deflected. "Because I fear that he hopes to recapture his lost youth and is doomed to disappoint both himself and you!"

  Gwin's anger boiled over, driving her into an indiscretion she would normally have resisted. "If you are hinting that he is not man enough to bed me, Wosion Saj, then I assure you that he has already satisfied both of us on that score."

  The little man flinched so hard that his horse dropped its ears in alarm. Gwin had shocked him, but not enough to end his interrogation.

  "Mature women," Wosion snapped, "do not throw up riches and status on momentary whims, as you are doing. It is not a brainstorm of lust, because he is old and unattractive. Be honest with me, Gwin, I beg you. More important, be honest with yourself. Tell me why you are choosing drudgery and pigswill over wealth and comfort?"

  She rode on for a moment without replying. Put that way, his question had no sane answer. Undoubtedly the proceeds from the sale of the hostel would allow her to live a life of lazy luxury in Daling if that were her choice. Why should it be? She could not possibly explain the sense of release, the feeling of adventure that thrilled through her. Husband, children, and property had all been taken from her, but she had found freedom. Could a rural pastor understand that?

  Could a man who had grown up in a family like the Tharns have any comprehension of loneliness, or what it was like to have no one else who really mattered? Would he understand that such a life felt totally empty of purpose? She must trim her sentiments to fit her listener.

  "When I was a child," she said, "I read fairy tales of far-off lands where girls grew up to reign as queens. I had an ambition to be a queen or an empress—I think I would have made a truly bloodthirsty tyrant, if I had had my way. Later I discovered that women never reign in Kuolia. I learned that I could never be a queen, or a soldier, or anything really interesting. Now I see that I cannot even be left alone to run a business. That leaves children. Marriage to a truly admirable man is a challenge to be an admirable wife—and mother, of course. A humble ambition, perhaps, but satisfying."

  Wosion nodded, seemingly impressed. As he should be.

  "I have suffered enough," she added. "I hope the fates will leave me alone from now on. Let that be my destiny!"

  "Do not make fun of destiny!"

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Destiny is decreed by Poul, who gives both life and death. I distrust the portents—Jaul is in the House of Followers and Muol in the House of Adults, both in opposition to her. Iviel is in Sorrows, Ogoal in Creation."

  Recalling some of Carp's views about portents, Gwin said airily, "Sound highly auspicious to me. What about Shool and Awail?"

  The pastor shot her a look that included equal parts of anger and suspicion. "Hopes and Abundance."

  "Poul must be in Men at this time of year? So death of men is opposed by passion among adults and hope in age—that's your father, I should think, about as clear as you could ask. We can expect change in abundance, correct? Probably means I'll drop twins first go. Fortune in creation sounds highly promising. What have I missed?"

  "Iviel in Sorrows," Wosion snarled.

  "Ah." She sheathed her rapier. "I can't explain that one—can you?"

  "Normally it would suggest great sickness, an epidemic."

  Or great sorrows to be healed? "Well, I don't think we ought to mention it then. And perhaps I had better not speak of the rest until I am sure." She cocked an eyebrow inquiringly.

  "No. I don't think you should."

  At that point, deadfall constricted the way. Wosion went ahead and she followed. She hoped he had seen the olive branch she had just tendered. She must not make an enemy of the pastor, but she was not going to let him bully her either—certainly she would not let him cow her with portents. Portents could always be read two ways.

  When the road widened again, Wosion had moved forward to talk with Elim. Gwin was not sure whether she felt more pleased at being rid of him or annoyed that he had snubbed her.

  She glanced behind to s
ee who might have overheard and saw that she need not worry about eavesdroppers. Niad and Polion were following, but some distance back and clearly oblivious to anything except each other. Niad seemed to be managing very well, considering that she had never been on a horse before. Gwin reined in and waited. They went by without even seeming to notice her. Wasn't love wonderful?

  The next rider, conspicuous in his smart green clothes, was the governor's man, Wraxal Raddaith. He was slumped awkwardly in the saddle, although he had shown himself earlier to be a competent horseman. He had his head down as if lost in thought.

  She decided that he was behaving very oddly for a spy. If he had been sent to investigate the Tharn family, then why was he by himself, instead of in a group, making conversation and asking questions? If he was supposed to be scouting the land itself—and she was convinced that he was a soldier—then why did he not show more interest in the scenery?

  She urged her horse into step at his side. "Pardon my curiosity, Wraxal Saj. I don't believe we have ever met before today, but I can't help feeling that your face is familiar."

  He glanced at her without interest and then looked away. "Possibly."

  "Well? Where?"

  "Do you go to the palace much?"

  "Never."

  He shrugged, studying his hands on the reins. "Civic functions? The thanksgiving service after the sickness, for instance?"

  "Yes. I went to that."

  "You probably saw me there."

  Perhaps she had, but that did not really answer her question. She tried another. "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why should I have noticed you there, when most of the city was present?"

  He paused so long before replying that she thought he was not going to. "I'm Imquin's nephew."

  "What? Then your name isn't—"

  "No, it isn't. But it will do."

  Chief of the guard... "And his heir!"

  Wraxal sighed and shook his head. "No."

  Greatly intrigued now, Gwin demanded, "Why? What is so important about Tharn Valley that His Excellency would send his own nephew to scout it?"

  "Very little, I think. My uncle does not confide in me, but he seems to believe that Bulion Saj will be influential in the near future."

  "In what way?"

  "That I do not know."

  That she did not believe. Possibly the heir apparent had quarreled with the city autocrat and been dispossessed. But if he was in disgrace, banished to an insignificant rural exile, why was he not showing more emotion? She detected no anger, no resentment, not even hopelessness. There was nothing in his manner except indifference.

  Gwin Solith prided herself on being a good judge of people. She was annoyed to discover that a man could be so inscrutable. Wraxal Raddaith, she decided, was either one of the slickest liars she had ever met, or he thought she was an idiot. Or both.

  "I expect time will tell," she said sweetly and reined in again to wait for someone more congenial.

  21

  The line of riders stretched over the moors. No enemies had interfered with their progress so far, and even Bulion now admitted that they were far enough from Daling to relax their guard. Weary horses plodded up a long slope of heathery scrub; the sun was painting the west red. Gwin ached from the knees up.

  "There is a good spot to camp just over this ridge," he said. "Why are you laughing?"

  She had not been aware that she was laughing. "Remember what Carp said: You need a god when you want someone to feel grateful to? I have never ridden as far as this in my life before. I shall be incredibly grateful to get off this horse."

  Bulion smiled sympathetically. "Perhaps your Ivielscath can cure what ails you."

  "I expect she could. It would not be prudent to ask, though, would it? I mean, just for a little saddle soreness?"

  "No, I suppose not."

  "And if your campground will provide some cover, Big Bull, then I don't think it need slow me down too much tonight."

  The old man blinked at her, contriving to look both disapproving and delighted at the same time.

  Gwin had finally obtained her private chat with him. They had been talking for hours, and no one else had bothered them. She could hardly recall a word they had said; she had enjoyed every minute of it. He was old, he was ugly. He sat his horse like a giant meal sack. His face was scarred by more than half a century of weather, even his thick eyebrows were silver, but he was rain in a desert. Some people, like wine, were immune to the ravages of time.

  Unfortunately, she was not one of them. She felt dried out and macerated by one afternoon in the baking sun.

  "I too, Nien," he said softly, "have much to be grateful for. You really mean that? Tonight? In the bushes, like naughty children? You know we can be married right after we reach the valley."

  "Please yourself," she said archly, "but at your age, I do think you ought to grab every chance you can get."

  He did not take offense, he guffawed, just as she had known he would. Already they had slipped into a comfortable familiarity, as if they had been intimate for years. She knew he still had doubts. She must reassure him as soon as possible. That was as good an excuse as any. Perhaps she was not totally without doubts herself. Whatever the reason, she was certain that she did not want to wait for the formalities of marriage. They needed to seal this improbable romance of theirs as soon as possible.

  "Talking of naughty children," Bulion remarked, "do you suppose an Ivielscath can cure her own saddle sores?"

  Polion and Niad were still together, a population of two, riding side-by-side, engrossed in each other and blind to the rest of the world.

  "I don't know whether self-healing is possible. That sort of pain is not the problem, though, is it? Emotionally, she is very vulnerable. If that grandson of yours is as slick as he seems, he's going to get what he wants."

  "I'll warn Wosion to keep a sharp eye on him tonight."

  "Not too sharp," Gwin said, contemplating the likely relative abilities of Bulion and Polion Tharn at wriggling undetected through bushes. "We don't want the guards catching the wrong man, do we?" She rode on for a few minutes. "What happens after?"

  A blank expression appeared under Bulion's hat brim. "After what?"

  "Sorry! I was thinking about Raragash. It would be a very good idea to follow Labranza Lamith's advice and send Niad there—and your Jaulscath, also, if she shows up tomorrow."

  Bulion said, "Umph! We don't know that the Lamith woman was telling the truth."

  "I don't see why she would have lied. And a trained healer sounds much safer than an untrained."

  "She might never come back."

  "Marry her off to Polion. He'll bring her back."

  "He might not come back either. We have harvest coming on, and the fort to build. How many men can I spare to accompany them? That's the problem!"

  "Your decision!" she assured him. "One last thought, though, and then I'll stop nagging. Defense isn't just walls, is it?"

  Bulion's face stiffened into a polite but noncommittal solidity. She could already recognize the expression; it meant she was straying into territory where she did not belong. This time his jowls looked as they had been carved out of mahogany and his beard starched. Fair enough—defense was certainly men's work in Daling and would be everywhere else. She ought to stick to her own business. On the other hand, Bulion Tharn was no more a soldier than she was, and every time he mentioned his precious fort she felt more skeptical about the assumptions he was making. She could hardly go into all that now. Perhaps he would never accept advice from her. Any marriage required adjustments on both sides, and he would find adjustment hard at his age.

  "Defense is men, and strategy too," she said. "I was thinking over what Labranza said about the Karpana and possible trouble in the future. In Daling we are hopelessly ignorant of what is going on in the rest of Kuolia. Wars happen and we don't hear about them for years. With all the respect in the world, love, you can't know any more in Tharn Valley. A band of fo
ur or five good men going to Raragash and back might gain a wider view of the world. They would bring back a lot of valuable information, and experience too."

  Bulion nodded. "That's a good point." He did not sound very convinced, though. Bulion Tharn liked to keep his chicks under his wing.

  #

  The promised campsite was a pleasant dell with a pool and much promising shrubbery. It was unoccupied. Gwin dismounted with relief, trying not to let her stiffness show. The men took charge of the horses. Since they clearly regarded them as men's work, they would not welcome offers of assistance. Aneim and Kathim, having produced a fire in magical time, began cooking a meal. Gwin could not help there, either, because she was unfamiliar with the mysteries of Zarda cooking. There were no tents to pitch.

  Feeling annoyingly useless, she looked around and spotted the mysterious Wraxal sitting by himself, head in hands, still paying no heed to the world. His presence here was inexplicable. Under his true name of Wraxal Strevith, he was popular in the city; he had acquitted himself well in the Tolamin disaster. He was young, well-born, and reasonably good-looking. Was he a victim of political intrigue like her, or was he playing a devious game? Here was something she could do better than anyone else in the group—unravel Wraxal.

  She walked over and eased herself down beside him. "I still do not understand why a man of your importance has been assigned to watch over an aging farmer."

  He turned his head and studied her for a moment, with no indication of resentment at her prying, or indeed of any particular interest at all.

  His stare disconcerted her. "I don't know why you are here," she said.

  "I don't know why I told you as much as I did."

  "I beg your pardon! I shall—"

  "But I don't mind telling you the rest, if you really want to know."

  Gwin made an incoherent noise. Wraxal Raddaith was diabolically unsettling.

  "It is quite simple," he went on in the same bland tone. "I am a political liability to my uncle now. He needed to get me out of the city and he hoped I might be of some use in dealing with a purely intellectual problem. I disagreed, but he refused to listen. I was right, he was wrong. The last thing I should be doing is telling you about it."