by Dave Duncan
Gwin struck him again. "Do it!" she screamed. "Get down there and cure him, or..." She turned to Polion. "Give me your sword."
White-faced, Polion began to draw his sword, and then stopped.
"I'll blight you!" Mandasil yelled, squirming in his captor's grip. "I'll curse you all!"
Gwin raised the crop. "You will heal Bulion or I'll cut you to ribbons, I swear it."
His face twisted like a child's. "I can't! I'm Cursed! It's not my fault. I never asked to be made an Ivielscath!" He struggled vainly. Shocked but obedient to Gwin, the two Tharns held him helpless. Tears trickled down his cheeks. "I'll rot you!"
"No you won't. Turn him round!" she snapped. "We'll see what a good thrashing does for him."
She did not know if she was bluffing, but Jukion and Zanion obeyed her, turning their victim to present his back. Mandasil was a powerful man, and all three staggered as he struggled.
"Last chance!" she said.
"I'll try! I'll try!"
"Let him go." She stepped back, wondering if he would reach for his sword, but he stumbled to his knees beside Bulion.
She rapped his shoulders with the handle of the crop. "Do it!"
Mandasil stared blankly down at the oozing horror of Bulion's back. He wiped his hands on his thighs. He was weeping openly now. "I don't know how! I may kill him. It's not my fault. I'll just make it worse."
Any worse at all, and Bulion was going to die.
"Do it!" Out of the corner of her eye, Gwin saw that Niad had been dragged forward. Niad might be able to help Bulion, but Mandasil's threats were serious. Somehow he must be brought to heel, for everyone's sake. He had not moved.
She slashed with the whip, as hard as she could, opening a scarlet line across the Ivielscath's back. He screamed, but he cowered down, not making any move to reach for his blade. She could sense revulsion and revolution brewing among the family as they recovered from their first paralysing shock.
Wosion said, "Stop! This is madness!"
"Voice?" she thought. "What should I do?"
Hit him again.
"Cure it!" she screamed. Again she swung, sickened by the sound of the impact and what she was doing to him. Mandasil reached out, spreading his hands on Bulion's vile rash. He sprawled there, weeping.
"Now think hard, Mandasil. Think about making it better. Cure him or die." Gwin tapped the crop on the nape of his neck. She glanced around the circle of bare-chested onlookers, the horrified bearded faces under the big hats... the horses behind them. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She wondered if she meant what she said. She wondered if the family would stop her if she tried. They had backed her up magnificently so far, but surely they would block her before she butchered a man in cold blood?
Unreality spun around her like a whirlwind.
"It's no use!" the Ivielscath moaned. "I don't know what to do." He lifted his hands away. He made a choking noise. Onlookers gasped. Where his hands rested on Bulion, the skin was whole again. Every finger was outlined as clearly as if he had pressed down on wet sand—hale pink flesh amid the red corruption.
"There!" she said hoarsely. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now carry on and do the rest."
She glanced around in triumph. She expected to see joy and admiration. All she saw was fear.
Reaction brought a taste of vomit to her mouth. Her hands shook violently. "You just have to be firm with them," she said, but she won not a single smile.
Bulion groaned. She knelt down and wiped his brow. The rash on his back had faded to a faint inflammation.
"Bulion?"
His eyes opened. He licked his lips. "That feels good," he muttered. "Doesn't hurt."
"You are an old fool! Why didn't you stop sooner? Why didn't you tell someone?"
Mandasil removed his hands and sat back on the grass. "I think it's all done." He looked at Gwin in bewilderment. His eyelids were puffy, tears still glinted amid his stubble. He rubbed his damaged knee, then fingered the blood on his chest.
"So do I. Thank you."
He started to speak and stuttered into silence, lips quivering.
"It isn't all bad," she said. "No one would ask to be Cursed, but it isn't all bad. You can do a lot of good in the world now. You can probably become rich."
He was about her age or a little younger, but either he had always been immature or the Cursing had unmanned him. Had he become a stonemason because his father had been a stonemason, or because he was muscle and no brain?
"But don't use it for power, Mandasil. Use it to help people, not to threaten and bully. It will turn on you."
He nodded uncertainly. She wondered where she'd found that trite little sermon. She wasn't sure she believed it herself, but she thought that Mandasil would be comforted if he did. It might even be true.
The red streaks on his skin stabbed at her conscience. "Niad?" she said. "I hurt him. Help him, please."
Bulion rolled over with a grunt and sat up. He looked around the spectators standing over him, then at Gwin. His eyes widened as he took in Mandasil's injuries. "What exactly has been going on?"
"You gave us a scare. All right now?"
He picked up his hat, beat it against his knee and planted it on his pate. "Fine." He scratched his beard. "Wosion? What happened?"
The pastor glowered angrily at Gwin. "I wish I knew."
Tibal, peering over shoulders, was smirking. Of course.
"It was destiny!" said another voice.
Everyone turned to stare at Ordur. He blinked his pale eyes in alarm. Gwin stood up, an instant ahead of Bulion.
"Explain that!" she said, striding over to the Tringian. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing, Gwin Saj!" He retreated a pace. She saw what Jasbur had mentioned: Ordur was a harder, firmer man than he had been even the previous day. His face had more character and less padding. He was probably not as stupid as he had been, but he was still not a towering intellect. She thought she could pry information out of Ordur, if everyone else would refrain from interfering.
"I'm sure you're hiding something! What destiny? Whose destiny?"
Ordur shuffled his feet and glanced surreptitiously at Bulion. "Just something Labranza said. About him."
Wosion said, "He's—"
"Be quiet, Pastor! What did Labranza say about my husband?"
"Nothing, Saj."
"You're lying!"
Another voice intervened. "Before or after she spoke with the governor?" Wraxal had come forward to see what was going on. Everyone seemed to be there now, except the three Jaulscaths.
"After," Ordur admitted, staring down at the ground and fidgeting like a guilty child.
Gwin turned to face Wraxal. He was a thousand times smarter than the Tringian, and no one could ever intimidate a Muolscath. On the other hand, he had no ulterior motives. His fish-eyed stare was uncanny, but she held it firmly.
"Bulion noticed that your uncle seemed very anxious to be on good terms with him. You told me you didn't know why. May we have the truth now?"
He shrugged. "I suppose so. A couple of Shoolscaths made some strange prophecies about him."
Bulion had arrived at Gwin's side, looming over her. "What sort of prophecies?"
She nudged him angrily.
"They were probably insane already," Wraxal said coldly. "They started gibbering right after."
"Tell us anyway," Gwin said. "Tell me!"
Wraxal was clever enough to notice the emphasis, even if few others in the group were. He frowned, hesitated. Then he said, very deliberately, "They said Bulion Tharn was to be the Renewer, founder of a new empire."
The tension exploded in bellows of mirth. Tharns removed their hats and bowed to Bulion. Ordur grinned witlessly. Polion, having no hat, knelt and inclined his head. The horses twitched ears in alarm, shifting their great hooves. Bulion himself guffawed louder than any. Men leaned on each other for support in their hilarity.
Tibal Frainith was the only one watching Gwin. He was keeping his face absolutely wooden
, revealing nothing.
37
The farm was deserted, but it had not been deserted long. Chickens still strutted around the yards, a couple of stringy dogs barked hysterically at the intruders. Tharns engaged in slow, deliberate arguments about the number of eggs in the nest boxes, the state of vegetables hanging in the larders, the age of cattle droppings.
"Whoa! Whoa!" Bulion roared eventually. "Four days or five, it doesn't matter. It wasn't the war. Come on, men! Can't any of you suggest why the people should have all left within the last week?"
"No signs of violence," Zanion said.
"Star sickness?" Wosion suggested nervously.
Silence.
"They heard I was coming and they all ran away in terror." That was Polion, of course. His grandfather aimed a slap at him, which he dodged nimbly.
Who or what had struck this place? Gwin did not like the implications at all. Her Voice refused to answer. To rush ahead into unknown danger seemed foolhardy, but what would they do with the Cursed if they went back to the valley? She could see that everyone else was thinking much the same as she was. Like her, nobody wanted to be the first to suggest going back—or going forward, either. In the end, their leader made the decision. That was what leaders were for.
"So we don't know?" Bulion said. "We can't stay here all day scratching our heads. Let's carry on and maybe one day we'll find out."
#
Beyond the farm lay the hills. They were very gentle, mostly cultivated, but providing welcome cover from prying eyes. The trails tended to follow the valleys, where trees gave shade, which was even more welcome. Houses were rare, and all of them were abandoned.
Once, when the road wound over a height of land, Gwin looked out over the Flugoss plains and saw the ruins of Tolamin in the distance. Five years ago she had spent her honeymoon there. It had been a vital, bustling city. Now it was a ruin, and Carp lay in a communal grave somewhere outside the walls. She whispered a prayer to his god, but it brought her no sense of communication. Perhaps the Twin God only listened to those who truly believed.
"Voice, do you hear me?"
There was no response, and yet the Voice had answered her question during her battle with Mandasil. It was oddly inconsistent—usually only she could hear it, yet Jukion had obeyed it once. Whatever or whoever it was, she believed in the Voice now. Perhaps it was God. She turned her face away from the past and urged Morningstar forward.
An hour or so after leaving the abandoned farm, the adventurers came to another village, equally deserted. Late that afternoon they found a third. The countryside was as empty as the lands around Tolamin, and yet the war had never come this far. No one suggested an explanation better than Wosion's theory of star sickness, although Jasbur and Ordur pointed out that there had been no mention of plague in the district when they had been in Tolamin two weeks ago.
Whatever the reason, the absence of people made the journey easier—and possibly safer.
Not long after that, Shard's horse began to limp—it had lost a shoe. There would have been nothing remarkable in that, except that this was the third time the same thing had happened to Shard since he left Bad Cove, and always at about the same time of day. The implication was that he was making it happen. He was almost in tears as he denied it.
Shard was only middle-aged, but he bore himself like a very old man; he walked with a shuffling gait and kept his eyes downcast. Back in Daling he had a wife and three grown daughters, none of whom he would ever see again. In the spring, he had been a successful merchant. Now he was a homeless, penniless outcast.
Ulpion inspected the damage. "This is crazy! I looked at these feet not two hours ago! There was absolutely nothing wrong with the shoe then!"
Gwin appointed herself peacemaker. "And Shard has not been out of the saddle since, have you?"
"He's an Ogoalscath!" said Thiswion.
"But that isn't his fault is it? And I personally will be very glad to call it a day. He may not be aware of doing so, but he chooses very good campsites!"
Bulion, who had been scowling in the background, picked up his cue and agreed that this did look like a good place to stop. The trail wound through a narrow valley, following a babbling stream. A grove of silver birches offered shelter, with enough scrubby undergrowth for some privacy, but not enough to be difficult. The flanking hills were bare of cover, so that no foe could approach unseen. What more could they ask for?
"This is the last spare shoe!" Ulpion grumbled, and called for Jukion to come and be farrier.
Gwin and Jasbur lit a fire. The men tended the horses and pitched tents. Shard wandered away by himself, aware that any offer he made to help would be refused, without thanks.
Later that evening, Ogoalscath influence struck again. The three youngsters—Niad, Polion, and Tigon—had taken their meals and gone off to sit in the twilight together, doubtless to debate the incomprehensible ways of elderly folk such as Thiswion, who was all of twenty.
Tigon claimed to be fifteen, which was little younger than the other two, but he was short, with freckles and a notably snub nose and the narrow build of a boy. At his age even a year was eternity. Bereft of home and family and friends by his misfortune, he had fixed on Polion as his hero. Polion had a beard, more or less, and a wife. Polion had killed a man in a battle. Tigon followed Polion around like a doting puppy, as much as he was allowed to. Polion tolerated him as a devoted slave.
Niad developed a severe attack of hiccups; Polion caught them almost at once. Eager to be useful, Tigon set off to find some water for them. The hiccups stopped. Tigon returned, and so did the hiccups. Not everyone would have seen the opportunity for mischief, but Polion was Polion. He sent Tigon to stand behind Grandfather Bulion, who was pontificating in the main circle around the campfire.
Bulion's sermon was interrupted by a severe attack of hiccups. Gwin, on his right, was unaffected, but they spread rapidly to Wosion on his left; then to Zanion, Jasbur... Tigon ran back to Polion. The hiccups stopped.
Polion then dispatched his secret weapon to the far side of the fire, and the next victims were Tibal, Mandasil, and Ordur. At that point, other people began to catch on. Soon half the expedition was hiccuping and the other half was choking with suppressed laughter. Jukion and Zanion identified Polion as the mastermind, hunted him down, and swore they would rope him and Tigon to a tree, back to back, until he died of hiccups. They might have done so, had the influence not ended as suddenly as it had begun. Order was restored, and the meal resumed.
Gwin was weary and the curious absence of Wesnarians bothered her, yet she felt surprisingly content. She was not alone—the whole company was in good spirits. The adventure was going well.
All three Awailscaths were obviously in transition. The Tharns seemed more intrigued than worried, which was an encouraging sign. They were a practical, common sense lot; they had accepted that the Cursed were people more to pity than fear. Jasbur and Ordur answered their questions with tolerant good humor. Had Vaslar not been so touchy about her present sex, there would undoubtedly have been some jokes on that subject.
Wosion asked how much control the Cursed could be taught at the Academy.
"Awailscaths, none," Jasbur said, "but it helps to have company. Some of the others—quite a lot. Ogoalscaths can learn to suppress their influence, although never completely." She glanced around to make sure Shard was out of earshot. "Especially if they're young."
"And just produce beneficial effects?" Gwin asked.
"Not always. What will actually happen is never predictable and even Labranza can't be sure that her efforts won't do more harm than good." Jasbur, having just noticed Vaslar Nomith deep in talk with Ordur, might not realize that she had just let slip an interesting fact about the president of the Academy.
The light failed quickly. Bulion began dropping unsubtle hints about it being time to turn in. Jukion chuckled and asked if his back was all better now. Zanion started detailing sentry duty for the night. Security should be easy her
e, Vaslar said. The woods were full of dry grass and dead leaves, there was no wind, so no one could sneak around without being heard. One guard would be enough.
Gwin decided to follow up on Jasbur's little revelation about the mysterious Labranza. She looked around for Tibal.
Tibal had disappeared. She eventually found him huddled by himself in the darkness, sitting on the ground with his head on his knees.
"Tibal? You all right?"
He grunted. "Yes. I'm all right."
Her heart lurched in alarm. "Trouble? Bad things coming?"
"Go away, Gwin. Please!" He looked up, his face a pale blur in the dark. "Don't, don't, don't ask..." His voice broke. "Don't ask me questions!"
"Oh, Fates!" She felt a sudden chill. She had never known Tibal be upset like this. Had things been going too well? She sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. "Can I comfort you now, and you comfort me tomorrow?"
He took her hand and sat in silence for a while. His fingers were icy cold. He was shaking.
"If I could...," he muttered. "But it would destroy me, and I'm sure it wouldn't help. It might mean... worse, much worse. Please go away."
Who? How many? The urge to ask questions was almost unbearable. She must not.
"I can't even jump to conclusions, can I? If I suggest posting more guards, for example?"
"Then I will have changed the future, even though I did not mean to. It isn't your fault, Gwin," he muttered. "It is not your fault!"
Now she remembered that she had once accused the Shoolscath of looking as if he had seen a ghost. Everyone else had been laughing uproariously. Then she knew who was destined to die in the night.
38
Muol was in the House of Bones. Bones implied passions of hatred more than desire, although Polion's mind was definitely attuned toward desire. Tonight was the night!
Zanion... may Iviel rot his guts! Zanion had given him first watch. That was probably deliberate spite. He was still getting back at Polion for Meilim's fairy tales. The assumption was that Niad would be asleep when Polion came off duty. Well, Niad had made him promise to waken her if she was. He had promised. He had not taken much persuading.