by Dave Duncan
He rose and took the basket with a poor grace. A walk in the woods could not be any less entertaining than the wedding had turned out to be. He stalked away into the trees.
Then he remembered the Shoolscath predicting that he and Gwin would be discussing him, Wraxal, about now. He hesitated, wondering if he should sneak back and listen. But why? Curiosity was really just another emotion. He did not care what they said, or thought, or did. He did not care about anything.
He trudged along the road. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. The way was smooth; Awail gave enough light to show the way, although she was close to setting. Muol's red eye shone bright in the south—the Passionate One, who had Cursed him, but yet had also blessed him, cleansing his life of emotional distractions. He would feel grateful to her for that, if he could feel anything.
Suicide was the only question that mattered. Why go on living? On the other hand, why bother dying? Looking back on his previous existence, he could see that it had been a constant turmoil of worries—fears, lusts, sorrows, desires, ambitions. He was free of all those now, thanks to Muol. There had been joys, of course, although he could not recall exactly what they had been like, and in retrospect they seemed to have been very rare and transitory by comparison. Life was a guaranteed defeat, long-continued decay followed by death. What use was it?
He was spending less and less time with other people. They seemed so erratic and unpredictable. In some fashion he could not quite analyze, he was slipping away from humanity. Not bothering to shave was part of it. Soon, if the reports his uncle had found in the palace library were correct, he would wander off by himself and become a hermit, a hairy, naked ghost haunting the woods. When hunger became a problem, he would just lurch up to a house and induce pity in the inhabitants so they would throw food to him. Then he would go away again. That was the usual pattern, according to the old imperial documents. Dogs and wild animals were the only hazards a Muolscath need fear. People could never hurt him.
Who is that?
The thought stopped him in his tracks. The question had not come from him, had not been directed at him. He had arrived within range of the Jaulscath.
A man alone? What can he want? Rape? The meaning was strangely distorted.
"I brought some food from the feast," he said aloud, preparing to drop the basket and leave.
Why should one man come here alone?
Wraxal hesitated, puzzled. Apparently he could hear her thoughts and she could not hear his. The weird distortion he had detected was emotion—fear. How very unpleasant! Well, if he went closer, perhaps she would read his thoughts, or he could just speak to her in words. He walked forward again.
The thoughts streamed out in a blizzard: Rape—pain—hurt—naked bodies—degradation—hurt—shame...
Fates! "I brought you some food!" he bellowed into the night. "I don't want to hurt you! Stop being afraid!"
Hatred! He hates me because I am making him afraid!
Making? Suddenly Wraxal realized that he was shivering. Yes, that was fear he was feeling! Fear! He could feel it!
He remembered Tibal's cryptic remark: "There is a way." A Muolscath had no emotions of his own, but of course he could feel those broadcast by a Jaulscath. How absurdly simple!
It worked both ways—she was reading his icy objectivity, finding it alien, spiraling into panic and taking her with him, He certainly did not like this gut-wrenching, spine-freezing terror. It brought back memories of the battle at Tolamin, when so many of his childhood friends had died around him. The unbearable loneliness was almost worse. It felt even more familiar, although he did not know why it should.
Don't be frightened! Stop it!
She was struggling to escape from her blankets and the tent. She was about to flee out into the woods to escape him, and she would certainly injure herself in the dark. That would not do.
Wraxal reached deep into her mind, down where the emotions lurked. As a musician might gently finger a string and adjust the tension until it yielded the note he wanted, so he tested until he found what he sought—calmness, serenity. He struck that chord. Her terror stopped, and so did his.
In its place came relief, and wonder. What? Who are you? What have you done to me?
I am Wraxal Omrath Raddaith. I am a Muolscath. He walked slowly closer, picking his way through the undergrowth. He continued to sound that note of peace in her mind, and savor the reflection of it in his own.
This is wonderful! I am Jojo Halla Kawith. You have taken away my fear!
He spoke aloud now, seeing the vague shape of her tent before him, but the thoughts themselves were faster. It was troubling me. You have nothing to fear from me. Do you wish me to stop?
No! No! I am so grateful! People fear me, and I fear them. This is wonderful.
Tentatively he changed the note slightly, raising the emotional temperature. He heard her gasp of surprise and joy.
That is even better!
It did feel good. Forgotten desires stirred in him—and in her also.
He chuckled, feeling the temptation, knowing that she must feel it also. That would be a sort of rape!
But not one I should mind.
Are you sure?
I think so. Try a little more.
How's that? Better?
Oh, yes! Wait—come into the tent. I will light my candle.
Don't! It will be better this way. He knelt and fumbled with the flap, his hands shaking wildly as he raised mutual desire to fervor.
#
The red eye of Muol shone amid the stars and the Passionate One shed her blessings on the valley. She began in that lonely tent among the trees. Later, as the celebration in the village faded, she visited the couples in their houses—and especially in one of the oldest houses of them all, to which Bulion Tharn had led his new bride amid the cheering of his vast family. Many a wife later remarked wistfully what a wonderful wedding it had been; many a husband then detected an opportunity that should not be passed up.
But in the newest of all the houses, one still scented by the smell of fresh-cut lumber and heaps of flowers, a band of young men had delivered a certain bridegroom and then departed in hoots of laughter. Polion Tharn, alas, had been persuaded too often to partake of the potent cider, and lay snoring on his bed, oblivious of his duties. Having discovered, despite her best efforts, that the healing powers of an Ivielscath did not extend to curing a drunken stupor, his new wife went sadly off to sleep at his side.
BOOK FOUR,
the book of
AWAIL,
who is Change,
the Inconstant One,
the Fickle One,
Ruler of the Night
32
The two brides met early the following morning. Three or four times each day now they called on Sojim, and always together. Niad was certainly an Ivielscath, because she had demonstrated her powers on Balion and Philion after their fist-fight, but she seemed unable to help Sojim unless Gwin was present also. The old lady was recovering steadily. She was alert and free of pain; the lump in her breast had shrunk until it was barely detectable. To jeopardize her progress with further experiments was unthinkable, and thus Gwin still did not know if she, too, was an Ivielscath or whether her presence merely gave Niad confidence.
Sojim sat like a little bundle of dry twigs, holding her visitors' hands, chattering excitedly, and insisting that their double wedding had been the finest she had ever attended. Niad sparkled, more like a porcelain doll than ever. Her long nightmare of fear and captivity had ended; she was in love; marriage obviously agreed with her.
The wedding celebrations resumed right after the healing session, when Gwin and Bulion went to the new house to offer formal congratulations to Niad and Polion. They arrived burdened with gifts of tools and a spice chest, imported luxuries that could not be produced within the valley.
Polion was considerably less exuberant than his wife. The crimson of his eyes did not flatter the greenish pallor of his skin. He tended to
flinch at the crash of falling sunlight. Possibly marriage did not agree with him, but more likely the problem was just weddings.
Then Gwin and Bulion returned to their own home and sat outside the door to accept gifts from all the other couples. The astran was head-splitting bright, with sun glaring off the white walls. It was also cluttered with extra seating and tables of refreshments. Needless to say, it was awash with excited children. Although she felt sadly deprived of sleep, Gwin found the staged formalities amusing. The first visitors to arrive were the other junior couple in the clan, Niad and Polion.
Polion watched in glum silence as Niad presented Gwin with a jar of preserved peaches. He declined food and drink with a shudder. He hardly spoke a word until he and his bride were invited to choose a return present from the selection available and Niad blushingly selected a small wooden bowl. Then he brusquely told her not to be so stupid, she was supposed to take the best. The two of them departed laden with crockery.
One down, forty-eight to go. The next household to arrive were Bulion's daughter Gaylim and her husband, very recently wed. Gaylim undoubtedly gave her father the most pleasing gift of the day when she informed him that he was to become a grandfather yet again.
And so it went. Soon the couples arriving were accompanied by gaggles of new-washed children. Eventually the riches Bulion had provided ran out and the visitors began to depart with the minor items that the first-comers had brought, but that had been anticipated. The whole procedure would end with old Himion and his wife of many years, who might even be stuck with Niad's peach preserve. It was a calculated redistribution of wealth within the clan.
At one point Bulion observed his wife smothering a yawn. He frowned.
"All your fault," she muttered, just loud enough to be overheard. "You should not have consummated your marriage with such astonishing enthusiasm."
Bulion puffed out his considerable chest and frowned no more.
Big Jukion arrived about halfway through the proceedings, accompanied by the diminutive Shupyim, two toddlers, and one baby. As soon as the congratulations were over, though, he said:
"Father, you have a couple of visitors. They say their business is urgent."
"So is mine. Anyone I know, or just peddlers?"
"One you know, Father. That man Ordur who came to the hostel. He has a woman with him."
"See they are given hospitality," Bulion said gruffly. "This matters more."
Gwin was hearing no disembodied voices, but anything concerning Raragash blew bugles now. "Darling, why don't you have Wosion talk with them and see how urgent 'urgent' is?"
Bulion glowered. The family was sacred to him.
She raised her eyebrows about as high as they would go. "Well...?"
He grimaced, which was a horrible sight. "Oh, all right. Tell Wosion when you leave, Juk. We can take a few minutes' break if it's really important."
Jukion and Shupyim departed; Thiswion and his family were next. As soon as they were gone, though, Wosion ushered the strangers into the astran. He also brought Tibal, Wraxal, Zanion, Jukion, Polion, Niad, Thiswion, and Ulpion—everyone assigned to the Raragash expedition.
Wraxal Raddaith was a surprise. Smartly groomed, dressed in clean clothes, he was transformed from the dirty, unshaven disgrace he had been the previous evening. He looked like a different man altogether. Gwin did not understand that.
A couple of hours had produced almost as great a change in Polion. His eyes were bright again; he was affectionately attentive to Niad, so marriage was not the problem, only weddings.
Gwin knew by now that family councils were not a Tharn tradition—the Old Man made the decisions. Nothing minor would have moved Wosion to assemble this group. Bulion invoked the Curse of Poul on the lot of them, then took them into the house.
The interior was dim and marginally cooler than the astran. It would not be truly private, but real privacy was a rarity in the valley. There was no shortage of seating. Twelve people easily found seats on the beds around the walls—lots of beds. Here Bulion Tharn had fathered sixteen children. Two had died; three still lived at home; eleven he had sent out into the world. He had retained all their beds. Gwin assumed that she was now expected to fill them again.
When everyone was settled, he growled, "Strangers, you are welcome, but you interrupt my wedding celebrations. Pray state your business quickly."
Both newcomers were travel-soiled and haggard, as if they had ridden far. Gwin knew the man—Ordur, the large, shambling, and lugubrious Tringian who had arrived at the hostel with Labranza Lamith. He combined notably slow wits with an unpleasant surliness. His companion was an ugly, swarthy woman of around thirty, who seemed naggingly familiar, although Gwin could not place her. A face so regrettable ought to be memorable.
Wosion alone remained standing, leaning against the doorpost and smiling disagreeably. He did not seem worried that he might have interrupted the gift-giving with something trivial. No one else yet knew what the newcomers' business was—except Tibal Frainith, of course, and his smirk was about as reassuring as a charging bull.
Ordur launched into a confused account of a place called Bad Cove. Gwin had heard of it, but knew only that it was somewhere on the coast to the south. None of the Tharns seemed to be aware of it at all. Apparently several Cursed were in trouble at Bad Cove. What did that have to do with Tharn Valley?
Then the woman snapped, "Oh, shut up, Ordur! Let me tell them."
Male Tharns frowned in the gloom. The big man pouted and fell silent.
She fixed Gwin with a beady stare, the calculating eyes of a crow. "We met a few days ago, Gwin Saj. I was a man then. My name is Jasbur."
The hunchback? Gwin recoiled in shock and felt Bulion react at her side. The webbing of every bed creaked simultaneously and several voices said, "Fates!"
The woman seemed to find perverse satisfaction in the effect she had provoked. "Fates indeed! Ordur and I are Awailscaths."
"Say what brings you here!" Wosion's ferrety face was shadowed against the light from the door, but Gwin suspected that his menacing smile was camouflage for fear. There had never been Cursed in the valley before, and now there were six of them.
Jasbur's voice took on a pathetic whining tone. "Ordur and I were sent from Raragash to seek out survivors of the star sickness. We met with scant success until two days ago, when we reached Bad Cove. There are six Cursed there, and they are in dire difficulties."
"Come to the point," Bulion said. "Why does this concern us?"
Wrinkles writhed over Jasbur's unsightly face, contorting it into a semblance of a smile. "You already have an Ivielscath, do you not? In Daling there was talk of enlisting a Jaulscath also. And do I not see Tibal Frainith over there?"
"Tibal, do you know these two?"
"I can't remember my own mother, Bulion Saj, and no one can recognize an Awailscath." The Shoolscath turned to Jasbur. "Who sits in the seventh seat?"
"Death."
"She's from Raragash," Tibal said. "Definitely."
Bulion scowled, as he did whenever he met something he could not understand. "So what are you asking of us?"
Jasbur wrung her hands. "At the very least, Saj, some food and clothing that we may take back for the children. I know the Zarda worship no gods, but you do have a tradition of charity to the unfortunate, do you not?"
"We do," Bulion agreed, nodding solemnly.
"Beyond mere survival? We have found six desolate people. To be Cursed is a devastation! It takes months or years to adjust, if one ever can. These wretches are hungry and friendless. I always understood that the Zarda revered the Cursed?"
"We do," Bulion said again.
"We got some money," Ordur offered hopefully.
"Oh shut up, you great oaf!" Jasbur snarled. "Leave this to me. Bulion Saj, I assume you will be sending your own Cursed to Raragash to be succored. Is it so very much to ask that you let these unfortunates accompany them?"
A slick performance, Gwin decided. She caught Tibal's eye
and saw in it a reflection of her own cynical amusement. Everyone waited to hear the patriarch's response.
He said, "Hrrumph!" and ran fingers through his beard. "Well, it's true my wife and I were thinking of heading that way on our whadjucallit, honeymoon. Understand it's only a couple of weeks to Raragash on a good horse."
"Oh, if that, Saj!"
"Well, I don't suppose a few more hangers-on would hurt."
Jasbur pulled a hideous smile of relief, and began to gush thanks.
A new and surprising voice intervened. "Pardon me, Saj," said Wraxal Raddaith, "but a few more may make a lot of difference. You and your wife and four Cursed—"
"And me!" Polion shouted.
"Making seven. How many supporters are you thinking of taking?"
"Five."
"For a total of twelve. Six more from Bad Cove, plus these two Awailscaths, will bring our party up to twenty."
"There's safety in numbers!" Bulion said stubbornly.
Gwin noted some fleeting grins—Bulion Tharn believed very strongly that there was safety in numbers.
Wraxal shrugged. "But it becomes a major expedition! Local authorities in Wesnar and Nurz may question a group of that size. It will include children, who will slow it down. One or two travelers may be granted a bed and a meal, but a large party must provide for itself. It must carry its own supplies, or gold to buy them, and may therefore attract the attention of the lawless. Ordur looks capable of swinging a sword around, but how many of the six are able-bodied men?"
Jasbur was scowling hideously at him. "Mandasil's a husky young fellow and Vaslar Nomith was a soldier."
"Vaslar? I know him! Yes, he's a fighter."
Ordur sniggered. "He's a woman at the moment!
"Oh, will you be quiet?"Jasbur screamed.
Bulion tugged at his beard with both hands this time.
"If the children travel in a cart," Gwin said, "then there will seem to be eighteen of us. Five women... If we wear men's hats, then from a distance we ought to look like men. Not many troublemakers will dare to meddle with a party of eighteen men!"