Seri’s hand unconsciously felt for her own hair. It had been growing since she arrived at Zes Sivas and fell well past her shoulders now. Even so, Ixchel’s was longer and darker. Is that why Dravid watched? Is that what he liked? Or was it simply Ixchel’s overall allure? Seri had grown accustomed to Ixchel’s odd clothing, no longer scandalized by the amount of skin she showed. Of course she knew men did not think the same way. But… Ixchel acted so cold, so fierce. She did not seem like a woman at all.
“Let’s try to sleep,” Ixchel said, her voice breaking Seri’s inner thoughts into shards that tumbled away. “You especially, my Lady. It may take you some time to adjust. You’re not used to this environment.”
As if she needed reminding of that! Nevertheless, Seri nodded her assent and let her body relax onto the bedroll. She faced away from the fire and the others. The air felt cool against her cheeks.
She blinked. Had she seen a flash of color? She lifted her head and stared. Nothing. Her imagination, her hopeful imagination. She lowered her head and blinked again. And again. She blinked until her eyes watered, and she wasn’t even sure whether the tears came from the blinking or from her heart.
Master Korda had sent her on this mission because of her special power, because she could see the magic. And now she couldn’t. Why even continue? Dravid tried to encourage her, telling her she could still use magic as all other mages did. But he didn’t understand. The star-sight had become a part of her. Losing it felt like losing her hearing or vision.
Her eyelids drooped. They had walked a lot today. The sounds of the frogs weren’t really that horrible, after all. In fact, they almost formed a peaceful rhythm. Perhaps sleeping outside would not be as much trouble as she had worried…
CHAPTER TEN
KISHIN WANDERED WITHOUT comprehending where his feet took him. He had no concept of time, no idea how many days, or even weeks, had gone by since… since the world stopped making sense.
He came to himself as he stood in a narrow stream, rubbing desperately at his skin with a rough stone. What did he hope to accomplish? Restore his leprosy?
Kishin’s rational brain began to assert itself. His entire life had been altered. That was true. But it had been altered in a good way… hadn’t it? Thousands of people across Antises would give anything to remove their curses. He gave nothing.
But it changed the very nature of reality. He believed all men were cursed; everyone suffered, whether caused by magic or Theon. Everyone bore a curse, and those curses were eternal. How could he accept he had been wrong all these years?
When his curse first fell on him, his mentor gave him four words of advice: “Surrender or fight back.” Kishin had chosen to fight back, killing and killing again. Because he endured the worst curse possible, he never suffered any consequences for any of his subsequent sins. He fought back in every way he could, even killing his mentor when he could gain from it.
And yet… he also surrendered. Surrendered so fully to his curse that he let it define him. That could not be right. Surely a man was more than his sin and its consequences.
Kishin climbed out of the stream. He needed to rediscover himself, return to who he used to be. He would start by going home to Woqan, capital city of Ch’olan. How would people treat him now? And how…
Kishin stopped. A thought struck him with such force that he trembled. He almost dared not think it. The magnitude overwhelmed him.
His daughter.
He had not spoken to her in almost two decades. He had barely even seen her from a distance in several years. Did he dare to approach her now? What would she think of him?
Kishin began walking. Woqan lay many miles to the north. Maybe by the time he got that far, he would think of something to say to the daughter who believed him dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VICTOR PUSHED HIS hair out of his face, squeezing water from it in the process. The rain had stopped, but not before thoroughly drenching them. As if things weren’t miserable enough with Nian’s death, and being conscripted.
He glanced at Marshal. His friend had remained silent throughout their long march heading to the temporary camp for new conscripts. His scarred face looked even grimmer than usual.
“Listen,” Victor said, “I’ve been thinking. This might work out well for us.”
Marshal looked at him, chin down and eyebrows arched.
“No, I mean it. Nian said that the place where all these soldiers were going to fight is the place where you might be able to cross into the Otherworld, right? Well, we’re going that way now, whether we wanted to or not.”
“Not worth it,” Marshal said.
“No, that’s not what I meant. I just mean… we’re going there, anyway.”
Marshal didn’t answer.
Victor slipped on the slick ground, but recovered. The heavy pouch hanging on the right side of his belt smacked his thigh. The Ranir Stone from Aelia. Not for the first time, he wondered why she had given it to him instead of Marshal. But she had entrusted him with even more. As far as he knew, Victor was now the only person alive who knew the truth about Marshal’s ancestry. Marshal himself didn’t even know. Yet Aelia had cautioned him not to tell his friend until… “the right time.”
“What is the right time?” he grumbled out loud.
“We’re here!” the venator escorting them announced.
Victor and Marshal looked down from a hilltop. The temporary camp appeared despondent under the cloudy skies. Grayish tents in haphazard lines dotted the landscape. The rain had doused any cooking fires, but a thin trickle of smoke still rose from some ashes somewhere toward the middle of the camp.
The camp of conscripts they had seen a few weeks ago hadn’t been very impressive. But compared to this one, it had been the height of military readiness. The few soldiers Victor could see moved with all the speed of a depressed cow.
“Edin Na Zu,” Victor muttered.
“Where’s the curse squad?” the venator asked his men.
“Down on the left,” one answered.
As they descended the hill, a scribe of some sort approached to inquire about their success. The venator gestured at Victor and Marshal, then explained about Albus. The scribe wrote something down and shuffled away.
The venator walked up beside Victor. “Congratulations. You’re now a decanus, in charge of the curse squad.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter?”
Victor blinked. “I—I don’t…” He pointed at Marshal. “He’s the one who needs to lead.”
“Needs to?”
Victor lowered his voice. “You don’t know how important he is.”
The venator shrugged. “You can surrender your leadership to him, for all I care. Just make sure one of you jumps when your centurion barks orders.” He tossed Victor a small red badge showing a black spear at an angle. “One of you pin this insignia on your shoulder.”
A soldier led the way toward some tents on the left end that looked even more disheveled than the rest. As they approached, an enormous man with light brown skin emerged from one of the tents. He noticed their approach and took a few steps forward to meet them.
“Look sharp, Ch’olan,” the venator said. “Here’s three more for the curse squad. Make ‘em welcome. One of them’s your decanus now.”
“I am happy to surrender that duty,” the big man said. “Which one?”
Victor pointed to Marshal.
The big man scratched his chin and looked from one to the other of them. “Whatever you say, boss.” He gave a short nod to Marshal.
One of the escorts stepped in front of them, an anxious look on his face. “You’ll keep a good eye on Albus, won’t you?” he asked. “He didn’t mean to… you know… what happened.”
Victor glanced over at Albus, who stared off into the distance unseeing.
Marshal gave a slow nod. “We’ll… watch him.”
The soldier went to say farewell to his former comrade. Then he and the other escorts left wit
h the venator, leaving them behind with the big man from Ch’olan. Marshal took a deep breath, then faced him.
“I’m Marshal,” he said. “This is Victor. You are?”
“Ha! A Marshal for a decanus, eh? Good one. I’m Topleb, but everyone keeps calling me Ch’olan.” He shrugged. “I guess because you Variochs think we’re all alike?”
“I’ll call you Topleb,” Marshal said.
He chuckled. “We’ll see.” He gestured for them to follow and led the way back among the tents.
A skinny man with long gray-streaked hair sat huddled near the first tent, knees drawn up to his chest. Somehow, he appeared more thoroughly soaked than Victor. Had he been sitting there throughout the rain?
Topleb gestured at him. “That’s Wolf. At least, that’s what we call him because of his hair. Can’t get a real name out of him.”
Victor tried to catch the skinny man’s eye, but he turned his head rapidly, avoiding eye contact. Strange.
“I don’t belong here,” Wolf whispered.
“None of us do,” Topleb said. He pointed to the next tent. “You two can take that one. I’ll move out and share with Merish. He’s asleep in the next tent.” He pointed to his head. “Good with a sword, but his pyramid isn’t complete, if you know what I mean.”
Two nearly identical young men approached, carrying buckets of coal. Topleb greeted them. “Ho, you two. Here’s our new decanus, who’s also a Marshal. He brought a couple more for our squad too.” The young men nodded, set down their buckets, and hurried away. Topleb turned back to Victor and Marshal. “I call them Callus and Gallus. Don’t know if those are their real names and don’t care. Farmers. Don’t know one end of a spear from the other.”
“I thought this was the cursed squad?” Victor said. “You and those two don’t seem to have any curses.”
“Neither do you, flail-man,” Topleb said, eyeing him. “Not everyone here is cursed. They just threw us together because we don’t fit anywhere else. I’m here because I’m not one of you. Wolf’s here because no one can figure out what’s wrong with him. And the brothers? They just make people feel weird.” He glanced around. “Merish is cursed. Your boy there who can’t see is cursed. And Gnaeus is here somewhere. He’s cursed. Stole something. His right hand is all twisted and useless. Kind of like most of these men.”
Topleb shrugged. “Once we get to the front, see some actual fighting? All of them will die.”
Victor looked around the camp. Everywhere he looked, he saw men who didn’t know what they were doing or why they were here. More than the curse squad would die when they started fighting. From what little he knew, none of these men were ready to fight. They were all sheep to the slaughter for the Lords’ amusement.
It didn’t take long for Victor and Marshal to learn their place with the curse squad. As part of a century of conscripts, Victor had expected they would be thrown together with the other ninety-plus men in some kind of basic training. Such was not the case.
The decanus of the squad camped closest to theirs explained everything.
“No one cares,” he told Marshal. “Look, we’re all conscripts here, except for the centurion and his assistants. But your squad is… well, you’re cursed.” He glanced at Victor, clearly wondering what his curse might be. “You’ll get the same basic supplies as everyone else, but that’s it. No one else wants to be around you.”
“What about marching? Formations?” Victor asked.
The decanus shrugged. He at least had the conscience to look a little guilty. “When we move the camp, just follow everyone else. They won’t care if you’re organized.”
“And when… we get to battle, you’ll put us in the front lines. To die,” Marshal said.
“Two weeks ago, I was a farmer,” the decanus said. “In another couple of weeks, we’ll all be on the front lines, dying together.” He looked off toward the city. “That’s what our new Lord has decreed. And he has the power to enforce it.”
Victor watched him leave, but Marshal had turned back to look at the tents of his squad. Wolf sat nearby, giving no indication that he had heard any of the conversation. He stared into the distance, his face a mask of desolation.
“What can we do?” Marshal said, his voice barely audible.
“I don’t know. Maybe once we get near that magic place, you’ll…”
Marshal looked at him.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll feel something? Are your powers coming back at all?”
“My powers,” Marshal repeated. He stomped the ground and Victor felt an almost imperceptible tremor pass under his feet. “That’s all I can do.”
Victor nodded. Marshal had burned himself out fighting in the Otherworld. But it couldn’t all be gone, could it? He had a Lord’s own power! He blew apart the entire temple! That kind of power didn’t just disappear. Not in any of the stories he knew, anyway. It would just take time. Marshal would get it back.
In the meantime… Victor jumped as his eyes settled on Wolf and saw the thin man’s eyes staring back. He stared unblinking at Victor for a moment, then looked at Marshal. Those eyes. They weren’t like any he had ever seen. The pupils were black, but a slate blue surrounded them, instead of white. His skin tone matched Victor’s own, so he appeared to have come from Varioch or Rasna. In fact, everyone in the army, save Topleb, appeared to be a native of Varioch. So where did the conscriptors find Wolf?
“Nian didn’t die for this,” Marshal said, again so quiet Victor barely heard him. “Mama didn’t die for this.”
The decanus turned out to be right. When the conscript army moved out the next day, another officer ordered the curse squad to fall in at the rear, just in front of the supply wagons. The centurion and his aides rode by them only once, and barely glanced at Marshal and his men. The army marched southwest, passing by Reman on their left.
As they set up a new camp, Victor tried to calculate their travels. “If we do this every day, I’m guessing we’ll reach the border of Rasna in… a couple of weeks?”
“What difference does it make?” Marshal dropped a rolled-up tent and stared at it, his frown pulling the rest of his face downward. “A day. Two weeks. Who cares?”
“It gives us time,” Victor said. “Time to prepare.”
“How?”
Victor pointed to an open area apart from the tents. “Tomorrow morning. We’ll find a way.”
Marshal’s expression did not change. A light rain began to fall, eliciting groans from the conscripts. They forgot everything else as they hurried to get the tents up again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DRAVID TRIED TO keep a smile from his face. Seri looked so pitiful. He had wondered how she would handle sleeping outside. After the first night, he knew the answer: not so well.
“Water?” He offered his waterskin. Seri, her eyes bleary and hair a complete mess, took it and drank. She groaned.
“Some people do this all the time?”
“Some people have no choice,” Ixchel said. She stood nearby, finishing her braid. “And others do so when traveling. Like us.”
Dravid watched as Ixchel carefully attached her two green feathers to her braid. Curious. “What is the significance of the feathers?” he asked.
Ixchel looked up. “They come from a… special bird in my homeland.”
“Do they signify anything important?” Seri, seeming a little more conscious, asked. “Your rank, maybe?”
Ixchel held the feathers and her braid and did not respond for a moment. “They are… special.”
Dravid looked to Seri. She met his eyes and shrugged. Her bodyguard remained a mystery in so many ways. Yet Dravid wanted to know more. She fascinated him. She possessed an undeniably attractive appearance, but her demeanor and skills could make any man a little fearful of even speaking to her.
Ixchel set to work educating Seri on proper morning procedures while on the road. Dravid pretended not to listen as Seri expressed indignation over being thought ignorant, at which point Ixchel pointed
out that she was, in fact, ignorant in this regard, just as Ixchel herself was ignorant concerning magic. And on they went. Dravid found their conversation highly entertaining, especially once Seri woke up enough to fully express her opinions.
They provided such a contrast in so many ways, even their clothing. Seri in her mage’s blue robe arguing with Ixchel in her short skirt and torso wrap. The thought made him consider his own clothing choices for the day. He picked up his orange acolyte robe, looked it over for a moment, then tossed it away. Time for a change.
Dravid pulled on a cotton tunic and a pair of breeches. They were not, in any sense, similar to the traditional garb worn back home, but they seemed appropriate for traveling. He added a leather vest, looked himself over, and nodded.
He ran a hand through his hair, still too short to require combing, but at least it was growing back out. Why had he shaved it on Zes Sivas in the first place? Had it been Jamana’s idea? Probably. If only Jamana had been able to come on this trip. That would have made things much more entertaining.
“No robes?” Seri stared at him.
Dravid shrugged. “I’m not exactly an acolyte any more, am I?”
“My Lady,” Ixchel interrupted. “We have not completed our tasks.”
After more instructions and arguing, some breakfast and packing, they finally resumed their journey. Seri gave the general heading, based on her magic sense, which Dravid confirmed. Ixchel blazed the trail across mostly pleasant terrain: rolling hills, scattered trees, very little undergrowth. Dravid often traveled through Kuktarma with friends and family, but his homeland consisted mostly of low plains and wetlands. This much up and down travel was new to him, especially with a crutch. He despised being the slowest member of the group.
Late that day, they found a road which seemed to move in the same general direction they wanted. Parts of the road had been paved with stones, but although it showed signs of frequent use, it had not been maintained in quite some time. It took little discussion to agree to use the road, despite its poor condition.
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