The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  "You came to Daling, then the valley, now back to Raragash. Who are you following—me or my wife?"

  Tibal sighed. "You know I cannot answer questions, Bulion Saj. There goes Wraxal."

  A couple of hundred paces downstream, the Muolscath was driving the wagon out into the water. Ephi and Kinimim, who normally rode in it, were following on horses, squealing with excitement. Jojo Kawith brought up the rear.

  "Do they get across safely?"

  Tibal hesitated and then said, "The girl almost falls off near the end, but yes, they get across safely."

  Bulion peered up at him, feeling an illogical dislike of his certainty. Why did he always seem to be looking past a man, instead of at him? "What happens if I call them back now and spoil your future?"

  Tibal's eyes narrowed. "I should make every effort to stop you. But you don't."

  "But I could!"

  "They probably wouldn't hear you. But you could try. That's why I normally don't answer questions. Why would you want to destroy me?"

  "I don't, I suppose. Let's go."

  Gwin and Mandasil were coming, leading the last of the horses.

  Less than a month ago, Bulion Tharn had awakened in the night with a sore tooth. He had come within an hour of death. He had found that marvelous woman to love. He had married her. Now he was adventuring off into foreign lands on the wildest of goose chases and at the rate they were going, he was not going to be home in time for harvest. He was a stupid old fool! So why was he enjoying himself so much?

  He smiled at Gwin, accepted Thunder's reins, and then—fates! The worst yet. He gasped.

  "What's wrong?" she demanded.

  "Back's a little stiff."

  "Silly man! Why put up with that? Mandasil?"

  "Oh, it's nothing." Bulion looked distrustfully at the Ivielscath. He was a dark-complexioned, thickset young man, who had been a stonemason before he caught the star sickness. He had not yet forgiven the fates for his misfortune and made no secret of his resentment. No one liked him much. Vaslar detested him.

  "Don't be foolish," Gwin said sweetly. "I have a personal interest in the functioning of your back! It probably just needs more exercise, but Mandasil, you see what you can do for him. Come on, Tibal, let's leave them to it."

  The Shoolscath mounted skillfully, and the two of them clattered hooves down to the water.

  Mandasil scowled. "I haven't had much practice. Where does it hurt?"

  "Here."

  "I think I have to touch you, don't I?"

  Unwillingly, Bulion turned his back, pulling his breeches down a bit, and his smock up. The former stonemason rubbed the small of his back with a hand like a rasp.

  "Any improvement?"

  Ouch! "Not yet."

  "Well, that's all I can do. Try that little blond piece." Mandasil clambered into his saddle and kicked his horse with unnecessary violence.

  Thunder whinnied plaintively at being deserted. Left alone on the island, Bulion hoisted his breeches up again. Mounting took him longer than it should. It also hurt. Gwin and Tibal were almost across.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, Bulion Tharn rode down into the water, heading for the Cockpit.

  35

  When the horses splashed out of the water and clattered up the shingle Gwin said, "That diary of yours—why do you keep reading it if you'll forget everything in a few minutes?"

  Tibal was already smirking. "But I shall read it tomorrow and the next day and every day. I premember what I'll read in it then. My present knowledge of what I shall read in it in future lets me know what has happened in the past."

  Trying to work that out could give people nightmares in broad daylight. "I saw you writing in it when you were sight-seeing in Daling. You made notes on everything you'd just seen?"

  "Not at all. I wrote down everything I was about to see, just beforehand, while it was clearest in my precollection. I always wait until events are too imminent for anyone else to get hold of the book and read what I have written."

  Gwin groaned. "How do you manage to make that sound logical?"

  They followed a crumpled path through the brush and found the rest of the party in conference, everyone still mounted. Beyond a thin screen of trees lay another, narrower channel, with ducks swimming on it, another island of shingle and grass, and then what seemed to be the west bank itself.

  "What's happening?" Gwin demanded.

  Wosion was closest. He answered wearily, as if he had given the same answer to others. "There's a village over there. We'll have to scout it and make sure it's safe."

  That seemed like an unnecessary waste of time. Why should it not be safe? She was not surprised to hear a ghostly whisper in her ear: You must press on as fast as soon as possible or you will be trapped. That village is deserted. There is no one there to see you.

  Trapped by whom? She knew better than to question her mysterious guide. "The place is deserted," she said loudly. "There is no one there to see us."

  The sounds of argument faltered. Then Zanion said, "She's right! No boats, no smoke, no cattle. Those fields have not been planted. We'd have heard cocks crowing."

  Vaslar Nomith barked out a soldiers' oath that ladies did not use. "Absolutely correct," she added, more discreetly. "I should have seen that. Congratulations, Gwin Saj! The Tolaminians made some counter-raids during the war—I'd forgotten."

  "Follow me, my hearties!" Gwin said, and urged Morningstar forward. The others had no option but to follow.

  #

  To be counted among the baggage was intended as a compliment—it meant one was regarded as precious. So Bulion had said at the beginning, when he set out the order of march: four fighting men at the front, then the pack train and the women in the middle, with the rest of the men at the rear. Wraxal and the Jaulscaths would follow two hundred paces behind in the cart. To avoid drawing attention to the women, the men would wear their smocks at all times. Gwin had rather doubted the abilities of the self-styled fighting men to defend her from angry rabbits, but she had refrained from saying so.

  In practice, the plan had not worked. The cart's pace determined the pace of the whole troop. When it was at the rear, the line tended to grow longer and longer, with much shouting to the leaders to slow down. No matter where he was told to be, Tibal always put himself as far from the Jaulscaths as possible. Vaslar insisted on being one of the men, and the Tharns forgot about discipline whenever they wanted to talk with someone in particular. People mostly just rode in two or threes, moving up and down the line as the fancy took them. As soon as the sun grew hot, the men removed their smocks.

  The one essential was that the cart must remain well away from the riders. To let it lead was more convenient. Vaslar and Bulion both grumbled about putting a woman, a twelve-year-old boy, and a girl of seven in the most dangerous location, but in this case the arrangement made good sense. Any malefactors waiting in ambush would reveal themselves in advance to the Jaulscaths, and would be thrown into panic and confusion by a mental thunderstorm. Usually, therefore, the wagon led the way and the riders followed.

  Having skirted the now obviously abandoned hamlet and located a trail heading in roughly the right direction, the adventurers moved over the river plain. Hedges and scattered patches of tall brush provided some cover. The day promised to be hot. Already a heat haze blurred the Carmine Mountains to the east. The snow-capped peaks of the Giants ahead were barely visible at all.

  Wraxal took up lead position with the cart. Gwin found herself at the head of the line of riders. At first she rode in silence, pondering the latest edict from her supernatural guide. The warning about being trapped was new. He—or she—was becoming more impatient. He or she had been right about the village being deserted. That had been obvious, really, but no one had noticed it before she repeated the information aloud. She must assume that the voice represented some supernatural entity—but who or what? She had never heard of the fates speaking to mortals. To credit herself with having God as personal advisor seemed dang
erously arrogant. She wished there was someone among her companions she could consult. Wosion was the obvious choice, but he would not even consider the god possibility. Tibal would certainly refuse to comment.

  Another candidate was Jasbur, who might be able to quote Raragashian wisdom on the subject. By luck or chance, Jasbur was riding alongside, but Gwin was disinclined to trust the Awailscath—not at the moment, anyway. Perhaps she would be a more reassuring person next week or next month, when it would be too late.

  The silence eventually became awkward. After a few surreptitious glances, Gwin said: "Pardon my impertinence, but aren't you a little younger than you were?"

  Jasbur smiled, and her smile was less repugnant than before. She adjusted her hat to a more rakish angle. "Quite possibly. I think the Ogoalscaths have destabilized us."

  "Us? Are the others changing too?"

  This time the smile was suggestive. "Did you notice Ordur's muscles this morning?"

  "Can't say I did," Gwin said hastily.

  Jasbur sighed. "Or his smile?"

  "How old are you?"

  She shrugged. "In years? Thirty-nine. Almost forty. Practically, I'm about thirty at the moment, I'd say. It varies all the time, though. I'm not always a hag."

  "You're not a—"

  "Yes I am. Or I was when I came to the valley. Couple of months ago, I was the most beautiful, husky young hunk you could possibly imagine. Sweep you off your feet!" Jasbur flashed bright jet eyes. If she continued to improve at her present rate, she would be a good-looking woman in another couple of days. "I've been bigger than Jukion, prettier than Niad, older than Bulion. Ordur says that being an Awailscath is like being weather."

  "I suppose you get asked this a lot. Which sex is better?"

  Jasbur chuckled. "Depends what Ordur is."

  "You've been lovers a long time?"

  "Lovers or friends. More than twenty years. At times we detest each other, but we've had a lot of good times, too. That's why we stick together, I suppose, whoever we are. We have memories."

  Gwin thought about that. "You say whoever, not whatever? It isn't just appearance that changes? The way you think and feel, too?"

  "Oh, yes. Likes, tastes, interests... There's good evidence that Awailscaths duplicate actual people. Raragash has historical records of that. One became the current emperor for a month."

  "Fates! You mean that one day you might meet yourself face to face?"

  "In theory. The odds against it are enormous and it has never been reported happening. My memory would not be hers, or his, of course. The one who became the emperor didn't believe he was the emperor—he just looked like him and acted like him. He must have had some fun around the Academy while it lasted."

  Struck dumb, Gwin rode on in silence, trying to comprehend such an unpredictable existence.

  "It would be nice to be able to choose who one was going to be, though," Jasbur said wistfully.

  There was a farm ahead, a small group of Zarda buildings, circular and thatched. Trails would always lead to farms or hamlets. It was still too far off to discern the residents, if there were any, and the nearer fields were still deserted. Beyond the farm, the land began to rise gently. Once the travelers reached those hills and gullies, they would be a lot less conspicuous.

  "What's this Veriow place we're going to?" Jasbur asked.

  "You should ask Wosion."

  "Don't like Wosion."

  "Oh, he's not so bad under the surface. He trained to be a pastor at Veriow." Gwin was no expert on local history, but a Tringian like Jasbur would know even less. "Wesnar's a Zarda kingdom, probably the purest Zarda of them all. They even have an elite troop of warriors who practice all the old barbarities of tattoos, mutilation... " And atrocities. Many of the stories that had come out of the sack of Tolamin would not bear thinking about. "After the sack of Qol, the Zarda split up. Pantholion himself came back east and settled here in Wesnar." She realized that 'settle' was not an appropriate term for a Zardon. "He spent his last couple of years in these parts, at any rate. He made himself overlord. He never had a fixed capital and even now the king of Wesnar moves his court around a lot, but Veriow was pretty much Pantholion's headquarters. He's buried there."

  "The Zarda were bad enough," Jasbur remarked gloomily, "but do you know why they invaded the empire in the first place?"

  "For loot, I suppose. Or sport?"

  "No. They were fleeing from the Karpana. The Karpana are even worse."

  And now the Karpana themselves had arrived, invading Nimbudia. The organized might of the empire had collapsed before the Zarda. The fractious little kingdoms of Kuolia would be easy prey for a barbarian horde.

  "Thanks for the good news!"

  Jasbur shrugged. "They may not come south. They may head for Rurk. So why are we going to Veriow?"

  "Because it's on our way to Raragash. The Zarda priests set up a college of auguries there. Wosion wants to compare notes and make sure he hasn't dropped a stitch in his calendar somewhere."

  Jasbur sniffed. "Sound like a pretty weak excuse to me."

  "And to me. I think he really wanted to come along and poke his long nose into Raragash. Tell me about Raragash."

  "Not much to tell." Jasbur waved a hand at the landscape. "These fields have been sown!"

  That was true, and Gwin was annoyed that she had not seen it for herself. Crops were ripening on both sides of the track. The corn was head-high, beans were tidily trained on their strings. She could see hay she thought should have been cut by now. The village by the river must have been abandoned during the Tolamin war, but someone had been living near here more recently, although the countryside still looked abandoned and there were no cattle in sight.

  She glanced back to see if any of her farmer family were within hailing distance, but Tigon and Shard, the Ogoalscaths, were the next couple. The closest Tharns were too far off to consult.

  "We may meet some locals soon, then. Tell me about Raragash."

  "Really, there isn't much to tell. In the days of the empire, I think the whole crater was a sort of giant park, but now there's no one to tend it, so the forest has returned. The great mansions are still there, and people live in those, mostly. There's no government except the Academy."

  She was being deliberately vague.

  "What about the Academy, then?"

  "The Academy is more of an idea than a fact—a lot of old books and a few people still trying to pass on what they were taught. That's all. There's a splendid statue of Emperor Losso Lomith, the founder. Do you think Wraxal could move that junk faster if we put some of the load on the horses?"

  "Apparently not. What do you all eat?"

  "There's farms. There's trade. Good fishing in the streams. Eat a lot of fish."

  "Where does the money come from to trade?"

  Jasbur pulled a face. "The hospital brings in money, I suppose. Why don't you ask Tibal Frainith?"

  Gwin had tried, a couple of times.

  "Because his lips are even tighter than yours. Tell me about him."

  "I honestly don't know much about Tibal," Jasbur admitted, flashing her improved smile. "I'd seen him around Raragash, but we'd never spoken. He's the Shoolscath on the council, which means he's well thought of."

  "By whom?"

  "By the other Shoolscaths. That probably means he's the least crazy of the lot of them. I do know he was Cursed when he was very young. The young adjust better."

  "And why did he come to Daling?"

  Jasbur laughed coarsely. "I wish I knew—and so does Labranza Lamith! But why doesn't mean much to a Shoolscath. You and I do things to try and improve the future. He knows the future and does what he does because to do anything else would be virtual suicide."

  "He says it's important—whatever it is."

  "I expect it is, and Labranza thinks the same, but she doesn't know why it's important. If you really want to understand Shoolscaths, Gwin Saj, then ask Tibal this: A Shoolscath friend of his, Ogiln, foresaw something bad, I don'
t know what. Whatever it was, he tried to avert it. He changed the future, so he lost his wits. Now, when that happened, did Tibal see the future change, or had he known about it beforehand?"

  That was another diversion, of course. Before Gwin could frame a reply, someone shouted from farther back in the line. The rear had halted. People were dismounting. They were calling for her. Something was wrong. She wheeled Morningstar and galloped back to see.

  36

  "What happened?" she shouted, sliding recklessly from the saddle, almost pitching headlong. She saw Thunder, with Zanion holding the reins. The crowd parted to let her though to where Bulion lay on the grass, face down and apparently unconscious. She knelt at his side. Men and horses crowded around again.

  "He just keeled over," Jukion said. "I caught him as he fell."

  "Bulion!" she said. "Love?"

  He moaned faintly. His face was gray, his skin clammy. His breath came in rough gasps.

  "Where's Niad?" said someone. "Get the Ivielscath!"

  Bulion's smock was spotted with blood and puss, the cloth sticking to his skin as Gwin gently pulled it up to see. The lower part of his back was a suppurating swamp of blisters, many of them broken and bleeding. The rash seemed to be spreading even as she watched.

  Voices: "The healer!" "Get the healer." "Fetch Niad!"

  "No!" Gwin leaped to her feet, shaking with sudden fury. She located Mandasil. "You did this!"

  With a broad Zarda hat and several days' growth of black stubble, the other Ivielscath was barely recognizable as a Dalingian. He was a husky youngster, but puny compared to most of the Tharns. Anger and resentment smoldered in his dark eyes. He pouted. "Didn't mean to. Can't help what happens."

  "Oh yes you can! And you can put it right!"

  "No I can't!" He glanced around warily. "And you can't make me! I'm an Ivielscath. Anyone who touches me—"

  Gwin lashed out with a boot at his knee, putting all her weight into the kick. He screamed and stumbled.

  "Do it!" she yelled.

  Voices rose in protest, Wosion's loudest of all. Gwin ignored them. Realizing she still held her riding crop, she slashed at the stonemason. He yelled and recoiled, a red welt already visible across his chest. He reached for his sword. Jukion and Zanion grabbed his arms before he could draw.