by Dave Duncan
And now she must test him again. Two weeks ago, when Ordur had revealed the secret of the Academy's involvement in the politics of Kuolia, she had passed on his information to Bulion right away. She had never doubted that she must, although she had known how he would grieve when he learned that Polion had been the innocent victim of sordid intrigue. She had not mentioned her own dark secrets.
Since then she had gnawed at them day and night like a termite, but she could not escape the inevitable conclusion. The Voice, the strange behavior of the Cursed in her presence... most of all, the memory of the night her children died. There was the answer, or perhaps it would be truer to say that there was the problem. She had been quite alone in the hostel, for everyone else had fled from the star sickness. Just before dawn, she had wrapped the two tiny bodies in clean linen and carried them outside to lie in the street until the plague cart came around, for that was the law. She had gone back to her room and collapsed on the floor. When she came to, she had managed to drag herself over to the bed. She had not been unconscious for long.
After her terrible bereavement, on top of days without rest, she could be excused a minor fainting fit. So she had always told herself and she had no real evidence to the contrary. Yet now... She retained only confused memories of that struggle to the bed. Had the windows been lighter than before, or darker? Had she been unconscious for a few minutes, or a whole day and a night? Coma was one of the symptoms of star sickness. Weeks ago, Wosion had suggested that she might have been infected—and now she was inclined to agree.
At lunch Ordur had confirmed her fears. The time had come to share them. She waited until the last stragglers were on the move and she could have her husband's full attention.
"Dearest," she said, "I have a confession to make."
He glanced at her with a pretense of astonishment. He began jocularly, "I refuse to believe..." Then he saw that she was serious. He smiled sadly. "Don't worry about it, Nien. I've known all along. It doesn't matter."
"You mean he's explained to you, when he wouldn't to me?" she demanded angrily. "Or was it Tibal?"
Bulion frowned. "No. It was Governor Imquin."
She reviewed the conversation so far, while the horses's hooves clattered on the stones, sending up little clouds of ash. Bulion twisted around in his saddle once more to make sure that everyone was following safely.
She said, "You know, I think we may be rowing different boats, you and I. Has Ordur been talking about me?"
"Ordur? No. Why?"
"I want to talk about Curses. What did you think I wanted to talk about?"
Bulion took his hat off, balanced it on Thunder's mane, wiped a sooty hand over his pate, and then replaced his hat again. "The hostel."
"Fates!" That seemed like a lifetime ago. "I've just about forgotten the... What about the hostel?"
"Well, the governor told me you don't really own it. You can't sell it. It really doesn't matter, because—"
Gwin began to laugh. "Bulion Tharn! Are you accusing me of marrying you for your real estate?"
Even under a full beard and a layer of black dust, he managed to look embarrassed. "Of course not! But I thought you might not... I mean, you may not have been aware..."
She smiled. "No?"
After a moment he smiled back sheepishly. "Yes! Gold digger!"
Poor Bulion! Had he really suspected her of that? A lesser man would have denied it. "I married you for you, you old rogue! Because I wanted you. What the governor meant was that I don't own the land! But I do own the building—or I did. And all the furniture and the art, which is worth more than the building. It's a legal nightmare, but I come out on top, whatever happens. Even if someone else owns the land, they can't set foot on it, can't tear down the hostel, can't use the hostel. They can't even boost the rent—there's some regulation. They can keep people out and shut down the business, but that's about all. Then we have a standoff."
He shook his head sadly, not looking at her. "Nien, I am ashamed! I really suspected that you—"
"Never mind. Forget the hostel. It doesn't matter to me any more. The money doesn't matter. What I have to talk about is much worse. You would have been better off marrying a gold digger. I think I'm Cursed."
"Oh no! That I refuse to believe! Has Wosion being bullying you? If he has, I swear I'll larrup him, cripple or not."
"I have spoken with Wosion," she admitted. "He's been very supportive. I made him promise not to tell you, because I didn't want to worry you until I was sure. And now Ordur's confirmed it."
"I wouldn't believe a word that smoothie says!"
Gwin took a deep breath. "It's what he doesn't say! Listen. Ordur tricked me into promising not to ask him any more questions. Then I remembered Tibal begging me not to ask him questions. Jasbur doesn't know as much as those two. She squirms and evades—but she always answers in the end. I seem to be able to force a Cursed to tell me things."
It sounded incredibly weak, although Ordur had admitted at lunch that he could not refuse to answer her questions. Bulion just lifted an eyebrow, guessing that there must be more than that.
"Then there's Niad. Back in the valley, she couldn't help Sojim unless I was present. Even that night she cured you—nothing happened until I arrived. She felled a man in his tracks because he was carrying me. And remember what happened with Mandasil?"
"You think you're an Ivielscath?"
"No. I think I somehow strengthen their powers, or direct them better. I think it works with others, too. It was my idea to send Wraxal to Jojo, the night you and I were married. He didn't want to go, but he went. That was lucky for everyone! You've seen him answer my questions when he won't answer anyone else's. And since I began to think this through, I've tried a few experiments. I took Shard aside and told him that he had to stop influencing horseshoes, because he was only prolonging the journey and making things worse. He protested his innocence, of course, but it hasn't happened since."
"Ogoalscaths are completely unpredictable! You know that. That's no evidence."
"Maybe." Gwin wished she believed it. "I told Vaslar that if she wanted to be a man again, then she should just concentrate on changing over. According to Jasbur, that doesn't work—but it did for Vaslar! Next morning, he... she... was well into another transition! Jasbur says she's never seen so many in such a short time."
The skeptical old farmer snorted stubbornly. "Same argument—pure coincidence! When I snap my fingers, it rains. It may take a month or two to work, but it never fails."
She chuckled gratefully.
"We're all a bit overwrought, love," he said. "I think you're jumping at moonbeams and rustlings in the dark."
He tried to say more, but a powerful gust of wind threw dust in their faces and unsettled the horses. Dark cliffs flanked the trail now. Blasts wailed along the gloomy ravine, chilling Gwin to the core. Gripping his hat with his free hand, Bulion twisted around to inspect his followers again. Satisfied that all was well, he turned back to her. He had to shout over the gale.
"Gwin, love, you have a gift for handling people. I don't know what I'd have done without you, these last two weeks, and that goes quadruple for some of the Cursed—Niad, Mandasil... I'd agree that you give them extra confidence. Curse it, you give me confidence! I won't believe there's any more to it than that."
With eyes streaming and a mouth full of grit, she tried to tell him about the Voice. He wouldn't believe that, either. He asked when she had last heard it. Two weeks ago, she admitted—the day they had crossed the Flugoss.
Bulion shrugged scornfully. "Then you can stop worrying about it. Hearing voices isn't all that unusual. You're no Cursed, Gwin! You say you're not an Ivielscath. You don't work miracles, you don't see the future or read minds. You haven't become a man since I've known you!" He grinned at her, big yellow teeth in a dirt-caked beard. "And you certainly feel passion! There isn't anything left!"
She nodded and gave up the effort of talking.
But there was something left—P
oulscath. It seemed very odd that the seven fates were represented by only six types of Curse. Tibal Frainith had claimed that sufferers Cursed by the Great One just died.
Wosion was not so sure. He thought that there was a seventh Curse, a very rare one. It was only a chance remark made by one of his teachers, thirty years ago, he said. He couldn't remember any details, and he refused to speculate on the matter.
It would make sense. Poul was disposer of destiny. The sun ruled the other planets, so a Poulscath, if there was such a Cursed, might well control all others. In itself, that did not sound worrisome. To control Cursed might be a considerable advantage, especially in Raragash. What troubled Gwin was that all the other Curses were two-edged. Healers could blight. Mind-readers drove themselves and others into frenzy. Seers must never reveal what they foresaw. And so on. The Curses brought advantages, but not one of them was a pure blessing.
What was the dark side of her Curse, if she had one? Why would no one discuss it?
#
Gwin had heard the Raragashians mention South Gate, but she had not expected a literal gate there. It was more than a gate, it was a fortress, a high and beetling edifice of black stone straddling the ravine from side to side. Arrow slits and battlements and high slate roofs gave it a forbidding aspect that suited its dismal setting. Raragash, she recalled, had originally been a prison.
Like the fates themselves, this bastion played no favorites. To invade Raragash would be as hard as to force a way out, for the only entrance on this side was a doorway barely large enough to admit a horse. The only indication that visitors were either expected or welcome was a makeshift hitching rail of untrimmed lumber. By this stood four horses, but there were no further signs of Wraxal or the Jaulscaths.
Bulion scowled. "You'd better hang back and let me take a look at this."
"Look all you want," Gwin said sweetly. "Jojo has obviously gone through and moved on. She must be out of range already or we'd sense her, and the kids too. I shall be fascinated to watch you talk Thunder into going through that tunnel."
Bulion dismounted and made the attempt, but Thunder agreed with Gwin. He set his hooves stubbornly. The others were arriving by now, most of them grinning at their patriarch's efforts to tow an unwilling horse. In the end it was Ulpion who managed to coax his mount into the passage, after he had blindfolded it. The others followed, more or less willingly.
The corridor was cool and damp. Clattering hooves rang on the stones. Gwin sensed gaps in the roof and guessed that these marked places where portcullises or other nasty things could be dropped on unwelcome visitors.
At the end lay a well-like courtyard, whose only attraction was shelter from the wind. All around it, the looming castle seemed completely deserted. Wooden doors and staircases hung awry, windows were blank holes opening into darkness. The ground was heavily littered, but she noticed horse droppings that had not been there since the days of the empire. The travelers waited uneasily. Bulion sent Ulpion and Zanion back to fetch the other horses.
Gwin decided to go back and help, but, when she reached the passage, she found it blocked by Tibal Frainith, the rear guard, leading in his mount. His voice echoed spookily ahead of him. "Welcome to Raragash!"
"I don't see any bunting!" Gwin said. "No formal committee to greet us? Where're the Jaulscaths?"
"They'll have been hurried on ahead. Untrained Jaulscaths represent a problem, as you know." He glanced around the court. "There's never much of a watch on South Gate—it isn't used enough. Come on, there's no point in hanging around here."
The exit tunnel was as cramped and dark as the first, but the horses made less trouble this time, as if they, too, were eager to leave the desolate fortress. Outside was sunshine and the wind again. The valley widened ahead and dropped steeply. Its walls were coated with green scrub, a promise of better things to come.
Wraxal Raddaith was sitting on a boulder, wearing his customary expression of total indifference.
"Been jilted?" Gwin inquired.
He rose. "There was no more room in the cart."
Tibal pointed. In the distance, a wagon was hastening down the hill.
"I see," she said. Although she knew sentiment was wasted on Wraxal, she felt sorry for him. It seemed so callous to leave him behind, after all his efforts. Without him, the three Jaulscaths would never have reached Raragash.
"I expect you'll be able to see Jojo again in a few days, won't he, Tibal?"
Tibal's eyes glinted mischievously. "Oh, of course. And there are lots of other female Jaulscaths around. Any of them would do, wouldn't she, Wraxal?"
The Muolscath shrugged. "I expect so." He did not seem to mind being baited, if he even noticed.
Shocked, Gwin looked to the Shoolscath. He shrugged apologetically. "You can't judge the Cursed like other people. Just thought I'd remind you." He grinned and cupped hands for her to mount. He was obviously in good spirits, which was a comforting sign.
She hoisted herself into the saddle with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a groan. "How much further?"
"About an hour." He swung limberly onto his horse's back, all arms and legs and boyish grin. "That still doesn't get us down to the crater floor, you understand. But it gets us to the hot springs, and food, and comfortable beds!"
"Wonderful! Is that a promise?"
Tibal laughed. "That's a prophecy! Trust me."
45
It came to pass in the Springtime of the Year, that the Knight's youngest Son, the boy Losso, was stricken of the Star Sickness but did not Succumb. Seeing no sign of Affliction on the youth, Lomith went then to his Lord and prayed him, saying, Let my son remain with us. But his Lord was Mindful of the Law and Refused him, saying...
Labranza sighed and slammed the heavy book shut, releasing a cloud of dust. She had read all that before, many times. Losso Lomith, founder of the Third Dynasty... the name was not unlike her own, Lamith, and she liked to think she might be a remote descendant of the great emperor.
The day was muggy, with very little wind. The sun glared through a misty whiteness, hardly past noon. She had stripped off her clothes and wore only a thin, sheer wrap, but she still felt uncomfortably sweaty. It was, she realized, the same wrap she had worn the night she returned and Ching... She frowned, wondering if that was what she needed. Two weeks she had been back, and she had been too busy for recreation. She could summon him to attend her tonight. She shook her head angrily. Any woman who let herself need a man finished up being ruled by one. Ching was nothing but her flunky and he was going to remain so. Whatever she needed, it was not slippery Ching.
She had brought a chair and table out to the shady lawn by her door, giving strict orders that she not be disturbed. In summer, this was her favorite spot for wrestling problems. Three or four goats on long tethers were munching the grass. Goats were smelly, unpleasant beasts, but they kept down seedlings and suckers from the encircling woods so that she could have an unbroken open space around her dwelling. The roofs of the Hall showed above the treetops—by long habit she faced that way so she could keep an eye on the poles. Once this had been a formal garden. There was still a small temple buried in the trees off to the left, and perhaps other buildings as well. She kept meaning to explore the woods and see what statuary or other valuable relics could be salvaged. She just never seemed to have the time.
Especially not at the moment. History was stirring. She could sense something that had slept a hundred years was about to waken—the Great Beast of War that the poet Quirmoith described.
Siren screams summon the valiant.
Our good intentions wilt again,
And the grass waits to be fed.
She dropped the book beside the many others that littered the space around her. She turned to the documents heaped on her table under crystal paperweights.
Reports from Rurk, from Mokth, from Pagaid... Nothing more from Nimbudia. There might never be anything more from Nimbudia. The Karpana had sacked Ashtin. They had erased the Nimbudian army
at Blicorn and then swept everything before them, burning towns like candles to light their way. Now, apparently, they were veering west, heading for Rurk. Or they had been when this was written. By now the tide might have washed Rurk away also. Who would be next? Tring or Pagaid?
She knew the text by heart, she had read it so often. She wondered if the man who had written it was dead. The Karpana slew Cursed out of hand.
There was the greatest problem. Throughout all the petty wars that had followed the cataclysmic collapse of the empire, the Academy had survived. It had subverted monarch after monarch. When its favorites fell, it courted their successors. The Karpana would be different. There would be no contracts with the Karpana—not in her lifetime. Give civilization three or four generations to rot them as it had rotted the Zarda, and something might be possible. At least they seemed to be heading west, not south. Raragash would survive for a while yet, as long as it did nothing to attract attention to itself. Fatalist powers were no match for a barbarian horde.
She put that report to the back of the pile and read the next. Trivia! She discarded that, also. The next was from Pagaid. King Por a'Win was restored to health, thanks to Ching's quick thinking. Por a'Win had rejected Labranza's advances in the past, but now he should be more amenable to a contract. If the Karpana left his guts inside his belly, that was.
The next was from Han a'Lith, with King Hexzion Garab, somewhere near Veriow. The fat fool was still waiting for Mokth to blunder into his trap. The news was two weeks old.
Bulion Tharn, the Renewer... another worry, however improbable. The old man was probably cutting hay and picking berries somewhere in Da Lam, oblivious of those absurd prophecies. She could not send an assassin to deal with him until after the Wesnarians and Mokthians settled their border dispute. A new empire did not seem as unlikely as it would have done even a couple of months ago. If the Karpana were going to smash everyone else as easily as they had smashed Nimbudia, then a Karpana empire was a definite possibility. It would have no place in it for Bulion Tharn, any more than for Labranza Lamith.