The Curse Giver

by Dora Machado

  “I know,” Bren said, dabbing his whetstone with a wet sponge.

  “My lord,” Hato said gravely. “You might as well get the trial over with.”

  “She doesn’t stand a chance, sick as she is.” She wouldn’t stand a chance if she was healthy either, but that was beside the point.

  “Theoretically,” Hato said, “that’s not true.”

  “But practically, we know it is.”

  “Either way,” Hato said stubbornly. “We need to know.”

  “She’s getting better,” Bren said. “She’s stronger every day.”

  “So what?”

  “Why put her through all of that if we know what’s going to happen?”

  “‘Cause it’s your damn duty.”

  Leave it to the old man to say the things no one else would say aloud. Leave it to Hato to state so casually the wretched legacy he had been birthed to uphold.

  “You’re a beaming beacon of hope,” Bren muttered, holding the sword up, closing one eye, and inspecting the blade’s edges against the light of the fire.

  “Hope, you say?” Hato flashed his long teeth in a bitter smile. “I’ve been at this since your father’s time. For you, I’ve toiled the length of your adult life, so that Laonia can survive. Forgive me if I give you truth instead of falsehood.”

  Damn Hato. He wasn’t giving up. And why should he?

  Bren returned the sword to his lap and, applying the whetstone to the blade, reassumed the long, even strokes necessary to sharpen the edges. The sound of the whetstone grinding against the metal filled the cave. The repetitive motion calmed his anger and focused his thoughts.

  “What if the mark is just a coincidence?” Bren said.

  Hato shook his head. “I’d be remiss to think that Orell and his men went to all this trouble for nothing. You saw what those fools tried to do. They tried to burn the mark off her, and when that didn’t work, they tried to hack it off. Had it been a fake, it wouldn’t have resurfaced.”

  “Yet your tests have proven inconclusive.”

  “That’s because the mark has been so savagely attacked.”

  “Hato,” Bren said, steeling his tone. “I won’t kill her unless you’re sure.”

  “Would you like me to test her a third time?”

  “As if she hasn’t endured enough torture already,” Bren said. “If you were sure, you wouldn’t be itching to test her again. But you’re not sure, Hato, and I’ll have more than just hesitation to sanction murder.”

  “She has the mark,” Hato said. “On that we agree.”

  “But she doesn’t fit Robert’s riddle.”

  “I thought you didn’t trust the riddle.”

  “They’re the words of a dying man, a madman there at the end. We don’t even know when and how he found it.”

  “I, for once, won’t dismiss the riddle as a madman’s raving,” Hato said. “Your brothers were determined to save the line of Uras. They died for you, so that you could continue their work.”

  Bren winced, remembering his brothers. He wanted to do well by the house of Uras, but his was a deadly inheritance, and he refused to take it lightly.

  “Think about the riddle,” Bren said. “There’s no might or wealth to this wench. She’s baseborn, the wife of a mere merchant. Inasmuch as we could use a break in our venture, she’s not it.”

  “We can’t afford to ignore any leads,” Hato said, logical as always. “Don’t forget, she bears the mark. Get to the trial, so we can move on. Just do it, my lord.”

  The whetstone ground to a halt with a jarring screech. Bren’s fingers tightened around the sword’s hilt. He had an urge to slip the blade between the old man’s ribs, to thrust it up and break through the solid encasement of a heart that failed to feel anymore.

  But Hato had given up his life to serve the house of Uras. No matter how hopeless or terrible, he had always told Bren the truth. And when defeat had overtaken Bren’s soul, Hato had been the only one able to wrench him away from despair’s crushing hold.

  Bren eased his grasp on the hilt and set aside his sword on the folded pad on the ground. Then he took a deep breath, trying to temper the raw fury coursing through him.

  The old man didn’t deserve to die for speaking the truth. He couldn’t slay his friend and mentor just because Hato reminded Bren of the beast he was.

  On the other hand, it was he, and not Hato, who had to do the terrible deed, and he couldn’t just slay an innocent because time was running out and they were desperate.

  “Don’t overthink the matter,” Hato said. “Riva is bound to catch up with us soon. We have little coin and low supplies. The tribute is almost due. Teos will call soon—”

  “A few more days,” Bren said. “Perhaps some of the other leads will bear fruit.”

  “I commend you for your decency, my lord, I really do, but practicality takes precedence in our case and time is not on our side. Orell is on our tail. You’ve got nothing to gain from a delay and everything to lose. Will you at least consider my advice?”

  “I always do.”

  Hato squeezed Bren’s shoulder as he shuffled out of the cave to join the others camping outside. Bren heaved a frustrated sigh. The old man was right again.

  But what about the woman?

  Bren didn’t know her. Her life might not be meant for rule or greatness, but was it any less valuable than his?

  Damn the Twins. The house of Uras was fated to become extinct if he continued to think like this. He knew he couldn’t afford to be weak. He had to be strong—for his people, for his house. He had to finish it.

  He knelt next to the woman’s pallet. Lusielle. He had learned her name when he scouted the lead. After four days on the run, an attractive face was beginning to emerge from beneath her yellowing bruises. The small, straight nose was sprinkled with freckles and underscored by a set of generous lips that enhanced her features’ harmony. The tiny line between her brows betrayed a hint of character. A trace of red streaked her brown curls, a touch of the fire that had almost killed her.

  Her body might have been pleasant to look at if she hadn’t been so brutally battered. Not only had Orell tried to hack the mark off her back, but he had beaten and even flogged her in the hopes of extracting a confession. King Riva liked confessions—even if they weren’t true—as long as they served to justify his lies.

  Bren knew that Lusielle’s wounds would mend if festering could be avoided. The blisters on her legs and feet had begun to heal, especially as Bren had cooled them with packed snow and oiled them with Hato’s balms. In a week or two, she should be able to walk again.

  He pushed a curl away from her face. It was silky between his fingers, strong and resilient. Her face was flushed with fever. Even so, she smelled good, like fragrant bread—a rich loaf, fresh from the oven.

  Why did he have to kill her?

  Bren guessed the woman must be in her middle twenties. He thanked the Twins for the small favor. At least she wasn’t a child or an old woman past her prime. This woman was young enough to have a full life ahead and old enough to look forward to enjoying it.

  She was brave too. He had admired the courage he had discovered in her eyes, even as she had been about to die. In the depths of her mossy green gaze, he had tangled with her will as if fighting a duel.

  But considering what he’d do to her—what he had to do—he should have surrendered her to the fire. Her death would have been kinder.

  Enough of this. He wasn’t born to heal. He had been spawned to destroy. No mercy. It was the house of Uras’s motto. No self-pity, either, as he couldn’t afford the luxury.

  He reached for the sword, craving its strength, but an odd sense of longing tugged at him. Damn it, why not? It was his curse, his right. On impulse, he pressed his mouth against the woman’s lips.

  A wave crashed over him. His breath felt drawn from his lungs. A force he’d never felt before rumbled inside of him, like a beast awakening. It was astonishing, improbable, incredible. He had to fi
ght like a drowning man to return to reality.

  Then he realized that a pair of steely green eyes stared up at him. “Who are you?”

  Chapter Four

  IT WASN’T THE MAN’S SCARRED FACE that had alarmed Lusielle. It wasn’t his proximity either, or the feel of his lips on her mouth, or the tingle swelling her lips. It was the shock that she spotted in his eyes, along with the loathing and the misery she saw there, followed by the instant hardening of the dark stare she had caught undefended.

  Who was he?

  A memory of fire and pain flared in her mind. The high heat running through her veins muffled her thinking. Dread. She had survived the torture and the flames. Despair. Was it about to start all over again?

  She scrambled out of the pallet like a rat dashing out of a trap.

  “Don’t!” the man said, grabbing for her leg but letting go as soon as his fingers came in contact with her bandages.

  She scooted backwards on her hands and elbows. A solid wall of rock slammed against her back. Pain shot through her body like a rain of arrows. Out. She had to get away from this man. Fast. She looked around in desperation. Was that a sword lying on the ground?

  Mustering whatever little strength she could, she dove for it. Her fingers wrapped around the sword’s hilt as she forced her voice past her bruised throat.

  “Stay back!”

  “Easy now,” the man said, standing up slowly, displaying his empty palms, motioning for her to calm down. “You’re going to reopen your wounds.”

  No more pain. No more torture. She was done with King Riva and his random courts of so-called justice. She was done with the magistrate, Orell, and Aponte. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  She scoured the place for an exit, swallowing great gulps of smoke-scented air. Her feet throbbed. Her legs ached. Her arms quivered under the heavy sword’s strain. It was an odd weapon, curved instead of straight, unwieldy to her untrained hands, foreign and wild. She clung to it with all the grit she could muster.

  He took a step towards her.

  “If you come any closer,” she said, “I’ll have to kill you.”

  “That’s a mighty big boast,” he said. “Do you really think you can hurt me with my sword?”

  Shaking as hard as she was, she could barely keep the heavy sword aimed at him, let alone manage a thrust. If she hadn’t been so weak, maybe she could have edged her way out of the cave. As it was, he looked very strong and daunting standing between her and the way out.

  “Listen, Lusielle,” he said. “That’s your name, right? Lusielle?”

  She nodded reluctantly.

  “Lusielle,” he repeated, almost kindly. “You’ve been through a lot. I understand that you’re scared, but you’re safe at the moment, and you’re not doing your wounds any favors. For your own good, do you think you could lower the sword and try to settle down?”

  Her mind was spinning in too many directions. The pain wasn’t helping either. But Lusielle forced herself to think.

  Where was she? In a cave of some sort, not in a place she recognized. How had she gotten here? She’d have to come back to that. Was this man friend or foe?

  Lusielle willed her frantic heartbeat to slow down. Her arms quaked with the effort of holding the sword. She recognized that she was ill and not just physically. She was also sick with fear. She had been hurt and could have died, but someone had been taking care of her.

  Him?

  She could barely get the words through her parched throat. “Did you—did you tend to my wounds?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “A-Are you one of Orell’s guardsmen?”

  “I’m not with Orell or the magistrate,” he said. “We’re no longer near your town.”

  “Then why are you wearing the king’s colors?”

  “Oh, this.” He tugged at his sleeve with a measure of embarrassment. “It’ll be off as soon as we’re out of the kingdom. It was a ploy. To get to you. Without getting killed?”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure she could believe him—or anyone else—ever again, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because she wasn’t feeling well or thinking straight and he had kept her alive, at least until now.

  She fought a bout of dizziness. “W-Where are we?”

  “We are in hiding, in a cave, away from those men. I got you from the fire. Remember?”

  She had a memory of his black eyes, holding her stare; of his curiously scarred face lit by the fire’s hot flames. She recalled the crowd’s snarling faces, flames flaring all around her, a commotion beyond the pyre, and something else, right at about the time she lost her senses… a horse, galloping through the flames?

  The world blurred. He got there just in time to catch the sword as it slipped out of her grasp. Resting the back of her head on the wall, she laughed. There was no amusement to her chuckles, only bitter surrender.

  “Don’t you go mad on me,” he said, enfolding her in a warm blanket. “Hang on to your wits, girl.”

  Easy for him to say. His life hadn’t been destroyed in three terrible days.

  He picked her up from the ground and lay her down gently on the pallet. His words came through muted and distant, but the masculine murmur was pleasant to the ear and calming to her nerves. His lean face occupied the full space of her vision. His mouth was firm, like the expression on his face. His nose was also stern, matching the grimness in his black eyes.

  Shame about the scar, which was so deep that it had burned through skin and muscle. It was a dark blotch on the cusp of his chiseled cheekbone, an oddly round patch, intricately roped around the edges where the mangled skin rose above the rest. The seared flesh pulled on the man’s lower eyelid, warping his right eye into a fearsome expression. Her sight was still blurred, but when she squinted, she thought she spotted a tear-shaped outline within the blackened edges.

  She shook with fever. Flashes of cold and heat traveled through her bones like caravans of rattling wagons. Her lips were as dry as cracked leather. She knew what she needed; liquids, lots of it, preferably infused with some of her healing herbs. But her arid mouth couldn’t quite make out the words.

  The man must have sensed that she was thirsty, or else he had tended to the wounded before, because he braced her carefully against his chest and leaned the rim of a pewter cup against her lips. Lusielle swallowed the lukewarm tea eagerly. It restored moisture to her throat and revived her senses.

  The man’s essential scent enveloped her, a fusion of heated metal, worn leather and fresh rain. It also wafted from the blanket and scented the air she breathed. It was strange, but despite the darkness she spied in his eyes, she wasn’t afraid of the scar or the man anymore. She reached out to touch him.

  He flinched, but that didn’t stop her.

  She ran her fingertips through the dark bristle of his closely cropped hair, allowing her hand to slide down to his clean-shaven cheek, caressing his chin and crossing over to the other side of his face, until her fingers tripped over the scar’s leathery edges.

  Had it been a dream? “Did you … kiss me?”

  “No,” he said harshly, but then the light changed in his eyes. “Aye, I did.”

  By the gods, he had kissed her, with tenderness, she remembered, with passion. “Why?”

  He frowned. “I—I don’t know.”

  What a strange man he was. Perhaps she was hallucinating and he wasn’t real. Perhaps he was her mind’s odd creation. At least he had admitted to kissing her, which was her most recent memory. Or maybe she was making that up too.

  She traced the scar on his face. “Were you kissed by the God of fire?”

  Surprise flashed in his eyes. “I guess you could say that.”

  “But you survived?”

  He offered a reluctant nod.

  “And yet you dared the fire again? After you knew how bad it burned? To get me out?”

  He gave her a curious look, but said nothing.

  The world spun violently within those bla
ck eyes, but she managed to keep her senses. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Brennus.”

  “Brennus.” She mulled over the word. “He who comes with the darkness. In the old tongue. Why did you fetch me from the fire?”

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  “Was it an act of kindness?”

  A sneer twisted his face. “Hardly.”

  “A feat of courage?”

  “I was pissing in my saddle.”

  “A charitable deed?”

  He scoffed. “I gave up on charity a long time ago.”

  It was odd. It must be the fever. She was having trouble distinguishing between humor and sarcasm, bitterness and rage. There was nothing soft about his face, no trace of joy or friendliness. Still, she wasn’t afraid of him. She thought perhaps she should be.

  “Why did you act as you did, Brennus?”

  “Would my reasons make any difference to you?”

  The question hung in the air like a promise about to break. She tried to read his eyes and found nothing but blackness in his stare. Her mind was flickering like a sputtering candle. Her thoughts were fading. But she could have sworn he was about to say something when a tall, gaunt man rushed into the cave.

  “They’re onto us,” he said. “We’ve got to move.”

  Chapter Five

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE LOST to Lusielle. Her life was a jumbled sequence of snippets, blurry images breaking up long periods of dense darkness, triggered by a sudden jostle or a twinge of pain, cold, heat or thirst. She spotted glimpses of a gray sky, spitting out rain, and campfires burning deep in the woods. There was more rain, and a face—his face—hovering just beyond reach.

  Occasionally, sound trickled into her muffled world from a distant place. The wind rustled through the trees. The horses’ hooves pounded on dirt, gravel, and mud. Men spoke, snorted, muttered and snored. A low, measured voice—his voice—echoed very near, urging her to drink, eat or sleep, accompanied by the pervasive masculine scent that was her constant companion.

  There were times when she came to just enough to realize that she existed in the world in-between, where gods and mortals met in dreams, where dreams and reality were one and the same. In those moments, she realized that she survived only because of someone else’s will, that if she wanted a future, she had to wake up and seize it. She kept trying, even though it required great effort, like swimming against a colossal tide.