The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  He slumped down to sit on the edge of the pit. "This procedure is highly unorthodox. I fail to see what it can achieve, and I attend under protest."

  "I don't," said the Ivielscath. She settled next to Gwin as daintily as a bird lighting on a twig. "For one thing, I think we must insist that our guests be moved to proper quarters. To lodge them in a deathtrap like this is quite outrageous. Do you support the president's actions in this?"

  "No," Baslin admitted.

  "Reports are coming in from our agents all over eastern Kuolia, but the president refuses to show them to anyone else, even other members of the council. Do you approve of those actions?"

  "Humph! No, that is clearly improper."

  "And these prophecies of the Renewer? Do you consider that a trivial matter?"

  "People have been acclaiming renewers for a hundred years. Not one of them turned out to be more than a local warlord."

  "But I don't believe Shoolscaths ever spoke of them before." Par a'Ciur turned an intent stare on Tibal. "Councillor, do you consider the matter important?"

  It was shrewdly worded query. Tibal smiled faintly in the flickering light. "Extremely."

  The watching Tharns exchanged astonished glances. None of them had ever taken those wild rumors seriously at all. Gwin realized that she did, and she wondered when she had begun doing so.

  "Well then! Is it not obvious that the council should meet as soon as possible?" Without waiting for an answer, the old lady turned to Bulion. "You will forgive my saying so, Saj, but you seem to have found your destiny somewhat late in life?"

  "It is not a destiny of my choice!" Bulion rumbled. "I have absolutely no ambitions beyond the welfare of my family. I am certain there has been a mistake."

  "Our president obviously does not consider it so, as she seems to be trying to murder you."

  "Come now!" Baslin protested, with what must be unusual emphasis for one of his kind. "You are jumping to conclusions."

  "I am jumping at every twig crackling in the fire! This place may collapse any minute. And what of the Karpana? We have long feared that they would follow the Zarda across the Nildu. The timing must be more than coincidence."

  "Coincidences happen all the time," Baslin said flatly.

  The little woman bristled. "Idiot!"

  Ordur had been watching the exchange with a pleased smile. "But the Karpana are hardly a trivial matter, either! The kings of Kuolia must be persuaded to unite against them."

  The big man dismissed the notion with a sniff of contempt. "As well try to organize a herd of crocodiles to pick strawberries."

  "Nevertheless, the effort must be made," the Awailscath snapped. "The Academy has influence with all of them—all the kings in the east, anyway, and some in the west too, although we cannot expect them to get here in time to do any good. It is up to us, as the governing body of the Academy, to exert that influence. The kings must be persuaded to unite before it is too late."

  "And put this farmer in charge of their combined armies, I suppose?"

  Bulion scowled, which was illogical of him, as he shared that cynicism. It was the Muolscath's abrasive manner he resented. Gwin squeezed his hand. The Tharns grinned uneasily, as if suspecting a joke. Ordur glanced thoughtfully at Tibal, who was being inscrutable.

  "Without committing myself to a prophecy," Tibal remarked with quiet amusement, "I can certainly point out that the kings are as likely to put their armies at the disposal of a farmer as they are to trust them to anyone else."

  There was a brief pause as everyone tried to work out what that might mean.

  Gwin leaned her lips close to her husband's ear. "You could have them escort us safely home, hold a big parade in the valley, and then dismiss them."

  Bulion whispered, "Sh!" but he was amused.

  Little Par a'Ciur raised a frail hand in benediction. "Let us remember the issue. We are not trying to solve the problems, we are just trying to bring them forward for discussion. These matters should be put to a formal meeting of the council, which Labranza steadfastly refuses to convene. Under the charter, a meeting may be called by either the president or a majority of the other members. We are four. If we agree that a meeting must be called, then she will have no option but to call one."

  "I don't know that your numbers are correct," Baslin objected. "The Awailscaths elect a new councillor for each meeting. Ordur must be confirmed as their representative. Consequently, we are only three."

  She flashed a smile at him, revealing an excellent set of teeth. "But if there are only five qualified councilors, three is a majority!"

  Baslin frowned, and then nodded. "True."

  Gwin had learned from experience with Wraxal Raddaith not to argue with Muolscaths. They were so logical that they took all the fun out of winning.

  The old lady did not seem to mind. "I warn you that I shall bring up the matter of the chairmanship. I have lost confidence in Labranza. It is time for her to step down."

  Ordur whistled. "But who could replace her? Not me, obviously. You? The Jaulscath's usually president, but Ziberor won't accept the post as long as Labranza wants it. You, Baslin?"

  "Never! I am convinced that any attempt to make the kings unite would be a certain failure. No one would vote for me, anyway, not even me."

  "Tibal?"

  Tibal shook his head. "I shall never be president."

  "Par?"

  The fiery little woman sighed. "I do not want it, but I think I could do as good a job as Labranza Lamith is doing."

  Something roared in the bushes. Everyone jumped. "Oh, you do, do you?" boomed a deep voice. Undergrowth rustled and cracked. Labranza herself exploded out of the shrubbery. Gwin had forgotten how big the woman was. She loomed over them all. She was standing outside the pool and everyone else sitting within it. Firelight and her obvious fury seemed to make her larger than human. The scratches on her face and twigs in her hair did nothing to lessen her dominance. Even the Tharns recoiled from the apparition. She struck unerringly at her opponents' weakest link.

  "Baslin Diblichith! Is this your idea of appropriate behavior for a member of the council—skulking around in the bushes at this time of night, conspiring against legitimate authority?"

  The Muolscath pursed his lips. "No."

  Was skulking around spying any more appropriate?

  "Don't you think that the decision on whether to convene a meeting should be made by the person who has the responsibility of doing so, who also has the relevant facts?"

  "Can't argue with that."

  "Then you dissociate yourself from this squalid little intrigue?"

  "I do, Labranza Saj."

  Triumph flamed in the big woman's eyes. "Pray come with me and I shall find you suitable quarters for the night."

  Baslin rose obediently and stepped up, out of the pool. Gwin thought: Oh, clever! There went the majority already—Labranza had gutted the revolution with one deft stroke. Tibal had his jaw clenched. Ordur's hung open.

  Now! said the Voice inside Gwin's head.

  She jumped. No one else was showing any signs of having heard it. "Now what?"

  It is time to exert your authority.

  What authority? She sprang to her feet. "Labranza Saj!" She trusted her Voice, but she had no idea what was going to come next.

  Labranza was already turning to follow Baslin. She paused and glanced back with menace. "Ah! Gwin Solith, if I recall?"

  "Gwin Tharn now."

  "Indeed? And which of these brawny young lads is the lucky groom?"

  That did it. Oh, did that ever do it!

  "If you don't know who my husband is, Lamith, then you are not competent to hold the important office you do. He wishes to address a meeting of—"

  "He will be disappointed." Labranza turned her back and stooped under the first tangle of branches.

  Not his authority, stupid! Yours.

  "Stop! Come back here! Labranza Lamith, I wish you to convene a meeting of the council as soon as possible. Ordur, when is th
e earliest possible moment?"

  Ordur said, "Sunset," in a strangled voice, as if someone had an arm down his throat.

  "I demand that you convene a meeting of the council for sunset." It had worked on Mandasil, but would it work on that formidable woman?

  Labranza swayed on her feet, apparently struck speechless. She seemed to swell ever larger, like a bullfrog. Her eyes bulged, her mouth moved and yet no sound emerged. Gwin sensed a battle, but it was not a battle of wills, or at least not her will. The president was fighting something bigger than both of them.

  "Answer me!"

  "Very well!" Labranza croaked. "I agree." Anything else she tried to say was lost in a great storm of sound as the East Wing began to collapse all around them.

  BOOK SIX,

  the book of

  JAUL,

  who is Thought,

  who is Reason,

  the Bright One,

  dispenser of truth and falsehood,

  maker and breaker of law and justice

  52

  Bulion Tharn was milking cows. An infinite barn of cows stretched before him, all clamoring to be milked. Milk red as blood flowed out from the bucket to lap over his boots. He was knee-deep in blood and still it poured from the udder, from the bucket, everywhere. Torrents of blood flowed through the barn, through a universe of cows. Quite impossible. He must be dreaming this.

  He opened his eyes with a grunt of relief. The roof was a solid, comforting structure of timber, but rectangular, not properly round, with sunlight pouring in through windows, instead of seeping in under eaves... but it would do. He was running sweat, sweltering hot in the soft bed. Memory came gushing back. These were the guest quarters, which he had seen only by lantern light. From the angle of the sunbeams, the hour must be close to noon. He had not slept this late in his entire life before, which explained why he had been dreaming of milking time. He reached out an arm and discovered that he was alone.

  He sat up quickly, too quickly. His clothes lay discarded on a chair; Gwin's were missing. He threw off the covers and scrambled from the bed.

  #

  The commons was a long room with benches and plank tables set on a flagstone floor. Swallows nested in the rafters, twittering, swooping in and out through unglazed windows. The view on one side was of the rambling guest quarters and the other of the back of the Hall. Today's gravel pile that had replaced yesterday's East Wing was not visible.

  Wosion and Tibal Frainith sat together at the far end. Wosion seemed to be lost in thought; the Shoolscath was reading his diary. They looked up as Bulion drew close, trying not to appear hurried.

  Wosion's ferrety smile would have paralysed a rabbit at two hundred paces. "Afternoon, Father! Sleep well?"

  "Where's Gwin?"

  "Ah. She went for a walk. Had some things to think about, she said."

  "She'd had a long chat with Par Saj," the Shoolscath explained, amusement evident all over his bony face.

  "You let her go?" Bulion roared. "Alone?"

  His son shrugged. "She said she didn't want company."

  "Idiots! She's in danger here now!"

  "Thiswion's keeping an eye on her," Wosion said innocently.

  Better! Bulion sank down on the bench beside him. "I hope he took his sword, or his bow?"

  "He took Jukion! And Ulpion's scouting ahead of her. That boy could creep up on a hare and tickle its ears. So relax! Not that you've done anything else yet today, have you? There's some food left here. Zanion's checking on our livestock."

  Feeling singularly old and useless, Bulion inspected the long-dead remains of breakfast with distaste—fruit, bread, ham, cheese, all singularly old and useless. Flies were feasting on them. When they had gorged, they flew off unsteadily and were nabbed by alert swallows swooping past. Wosion took up a pitcher and filled a clay beaker with a frothy fluid that smelled of yeast and hops. He scooped a couple of insects out with his fingers and passed the beaker to his father.

  Bulion tried it. It was tepid, but not too bad. "What did she learn from Par a'Ciur?"

  The resulting hesitation was not encouraging.

  "Gwin'll be back in a minute," Tibal said quietly. "She'll explain. Par is a wonderful old lady, and very knowledgeable. I'm sure she broke the news as gently as it can be broken."

  "I don't suppose either of you haystacks could drop me a hint, could you?"

  Wosion sighed. "It confirms what I thought I remembered. There's an old belief... A theory, more like..."

  "The trouble with Poulscaths," Tibal said, "is that no one knows very much about them. They're extremely rare and they don't sit around and let you examine them. Gwin will be the best-documented instance of... Never mind."

  "I am about to become homicidal," Bulion said. "I thought I ought to warn you both."

  Wosion rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Pantholion. Even in his day, there was always gossip that he was a Poulscath."

  Bulion's empty beaker hit the table with a thud. He felt as if his heart had landed on the floor.

  "And Losso Lomith was another," Tibal added. "The first one there's any record of. No one knew much about fatalism before he set up the Academy, and of course he wasn't about to let the Academy examine him when he was emperor."

  "Seven Curses!" Bulion whispered.

  "Very apt, Father." Wosion leered. "Or should I say, 'Your Majesty'?" He looked inquiringly at Tibal. "There never was a female emperor, was there?"

  "An empress regnant? No, although one or two of the emperors were commonly regarded as figureheads for their wives. And Zarda would be even less likely to accept a woman as leader, right?"

  Bulion slammed his fist on the boards. Dishes clattered and his companions jumped. He leaned across at the Shoolscath and roared. "Are you prophesying that my wife is going to set me up as a puppet emperor?" Intolerable!

  Tibal swayed back on his bench. "No, Saj! I do not prophesy that at all! I never prophesy, I mean." His gaunt cheeks had turned chalky. What could make a Shoolscath react like that?

  "You're lying, you accursed backward-thinking, mind-twisting seer!"

  "No, Saj! Here's Gwin now!"

  Bulion heaved himself to his feet and almost overbalanced as he turned to greet his wife. She hugged him and then moved back a pace to regard him critically.

  "I see they broke the news! Not exactly a heart-warming prospect is it?" She stepped over the bench and sat on it.

  "Perhaps we should leave?" Wosion laid both hands on the table expectantly. Tibal did not move.

  "No, you may as well stay," Gwin said. "Sit down, love."

  Bulion obeyed. "Pantholion?" he groaned. "Losso Lomith?"

  Gwin nodded. She was a little paler than usual, but under control. "I'm in distinguished company, it seems. One or two others..." She bit her lip and did not specify. "You all right, Tibal?"

  "What else?" Bulion demanded.

  She toyed with a fig, turning it around on itself with one finger. "Poul is ruler of destiny. The way Par a'Ciur put it, a Poulscath is a rock in the stream of history. Everyone else is swept along by the current, like leaves. A Poulscath stands against the flow, diverting it into a new path."

  It should have been obvious, of course. The absurd prophesies of him as Renewer, the hints that his wife was Cursed by Poul—they could not be unrelated. One led to the other.

  "What Pantholion said," said Wosion, "was, 'I am the trunk and my people are the leaves. They are raindrops; I am the wind. They...'" He smiled nervously at his father and fell silent.

  "Do you have any say in this?" Bulion barely knew his own voice. "Can you refuse the honor? Or are you compelled to fulfil your destiny? Do you now rush out and conquer the Karpana... conquer the whole fucking continent and set me up on a throne?"

  Gwin turned the fig the other way in silence.

  The other two were watching her intently. Wosion was not hiding his concern, although he very rarely let his true feelings show. Tibal Frainith had recovered from his fright and wore his usual worshipfu
l expression that Bulion had come to know, and dislike, and was tempted to remove with a fist. That long strip of mystery was always following her around, gazing at her with doting mooncalf looks. Bulion had had about enough of the Shoolscath.

  "I imagine I can stop now," Gwin told the fig, "but that may bring the Karpana down on us. I don't see how we can possibly just ride out of here and get safely home to the valley."

  The flies buzzed undisturbed for a moment. Even the swallows seemed to have fallen silent to listen. Then Bulion pulled himself together and put an arm around her. "That's the catch?"

  She leaned into his embrace without ceasing her pestering of the fig. "Probably. Nobody knows. Par a'Ciur thinks there have been one or two people tentatively identified as Poulscaths who refused the call. They would not rise to greatness, was how she put it."

  "And what happened to them?"

  "They died." She shivered. "In unfortunate ways. That seems to be the catch. Once you start along the road, you can't turn back."

  "Then don't start!"

  Gwin rolled the fig over.

  "She's already started, Father," Wosion said. "She started when she left Daling. Remember how Cursed flocked to her?"

  Gwin looked around at Bulion and then away again. "Or did it start when I asked Niad to cure you? Or when Tibal came, the day before. He was the first to arrive. That was when I first heard my Voice."

  "What's his interest in this?" Bulion glared at the tall man. Meddling young freak!

  "Believe me," Tibal said softly, "if I could say, if I could even hint, I would do so gladly, Bulion Saj. I foresee misfortune and sadness, of course, but if I try to divert it, then I shall bring disaster on—"