The Curse Giver

by Dora Machado

  “We can’t let him do that.” Lusielle straightened her clothing and found her feet. “The calming brew has put him to sleep.” And the snakewort powders she had added to the drink were likely to keep him out at least until morning.

  Vestor stammered. “If he remembers what happened—”

  “We’ll have to help him forget.”

  Lusielle drew determination from her tone and courage from her resolve. She hadn’t survived Aponte, the magistrate, Orell, the Dismal Bog and the Lord of Laonia only to fall prey to the Pious. She was hoping to be far away when the Eligious awoke, but she wasn’t going to abandon Vestor to the Pious’s dangerous whims.

  She threw some of the sweet milk nut’s cracked shell in a clean mortar and, crushing it with a pestle, ground it into a coarse powder, transferred it into a bowl and, adding some more of Vestor’s brew, began whisking.

  Vestor gestured towards her loose laces, to the suppurating spot on her back where the Pious’s blade had scraped her skin raw. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing,” Lusielle said, intent on her potion. “He didn’t have time to carve me up.”

  “Why would he want to carve you up?”

  “It’s got something to do with my birthmark.”

  “What mark?”

  “It’s a long story—”

  “Let me see.” Vestor dipped a sponge in Lusielle’s cleansing potion and wiped the blood off her back. “Why did the Pious try to remove it?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought perhaps you—being an Ascended and all—may know something about it.”

  “Me? No.” Vestor patted the spot dry and smeared some salve on it. “What do you know?”

  “It’s something that the nobles of the house of Uras hunt and the king too, maybe. The Pious was very interested in it—”

  “Is that why you’re traveling with the Lord of Laonia? Because he caught you?”

  “That’s how it all started—”

  “You need to get away from that man—”

  “Not to worry,” she said. “I’ve got a solid plan and a destination in mind.”

  “You seem prone to trouble,” Vestor said. “Do you do this often?”

  “Do what?”

  “Defy the mighty. Provoke the mean. Meddle with unconscious people’s memories and that sort of thing.”

  “I’ve never done it before. I’ve always been faithful to Izar’s rules, which teach that ingredients should only be mixed to keep the health, heal the sick, alleviate pain or save a life.” She finished stirring the drink into a high froth. “Do you have a funnel?”

  “It’s somewhere around here.” He searched through his shelves. “Here it is.”

  “We’ll need to pour this amended brew down the Pious’s throat.”

  “The gods forgive us,” Vestor said. “Will it make the Pious forget everything?”

  “It’ll make him very groggy, affecting his memory.”

  “Do you think this potion will somehow improve the Pious’s health?”

  “The Pious’s health? No. I’m going for the-life-saving-sort-of-thing today.”

  “Whose life?”

  Lusielle met Vestor’s stare. “Yours.”

  * * *

  “Where are you going?” Vestor asked, after they had tucked the Pious into the sick cot, dressed his voided boil and finished feeding him the potion she had mixed.

  “I need to do something very important before I get back to my lord’s chamber.” Lusielle slung the remedy case over her shoulder and put her ear to the door.

  “You’re going to leave, aren’t you? You’re going to try to escape.”

  Lusielle couldn’t bear to look the man in the eye. “I have to go.”

  “Anyone else would have denied it.”

  “I think you’re worthy of the truth.” Lusielle cracked open the door and spotted two of the Pious’s escorts, conversing down the hallway.

  Vestor shut the door quietly. “No woman I’ve known has ever thought of my life as important.”

  “How about this,” Lusielle said. “You won’t judge all women by your mother’s measure and I won’t judge all Ascended based on the Pious’s behavior.”

  “A fair trade,” Vestor said, “but you underestimate the temple’s dangers. The king’s men are stalking the yards and my fellow Ascended aren’t going to allow you to wander the grounds freely.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “The oath extols kindness in return for kindness.” Vestor unhooked a red cloak from behind the door. “Put it on.”

  “You want me to wear your cloak?”

  “No one will suspect a pair of Ascended going about the temple’s business.” Vestor donned the Pious’s mantle and buttoned down the cloak Lusielle wore. “Leave the end of the braid hanging out where it can be seen. Few will question the authority of a braid as long as mine, and as long as you don’t show your face, we’ll be fine.” He picked up the corked flask. “Now, let’s go, quickly, ‘cause there’s one more thing you must do before you leave.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must deliver the infusion to the woman with the infected eye.”

  “I don’t have the time to—”

  “I’m willing to help you,” Vestor said, “but in return you must help us. If you don’t show up, those feared rumors will become rampant, destroying the worshipping season and ruining the temple.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Lusielle. I like you a lot, but please understand: I can’t let you destroy the temples that raised me.”

  * * *

  Lusielle hesitated at the gate. The courtyard was crowded with people, but as she scoured the crowd, she could see none of Orell’s guards at the moment. She knew she would be fair game to the king’s guards if she ventured out of the inner walls, but she saw no alternative. Her meeting with the Pious had not given her the answers she sought, and as much as the secret note could be one of Eligious or Orell’s snares, it could also offer Bren and her the only safe way out.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Vestor said.

  Lusielle nodded and, draping the cowl over her head, joined one of the processions. Vestor pressed behind her, leading her with discreet tugs. The flower market was not far. The stands edged the main lane on both sides, perfuming the air with an intense floral scent. Come learn of butterflies among Laonia’s sweetest blooms. What had Bren said about Laonian flowers?

  Asters. A simple flower. They had been his favorite, original to his beloved steppes. Only one of the flower vendors had some asters for sale, and they were not even fresh. A single cluster of dried asters hung from the rafter like a signal or perhaps a warning.

  “Stay out here,” she whispered to Vestor, before entering the stand, pretending to examine the merchandise while scanning for signs of trouble. Vestor lingered outside the stall, on the lookout for Orell and his men.

  She took advantage of a sudden commotion at one of the shrines to talk to the young woman minding the stand. “How much for these?” She unhooked the purple asters from the rafters.

  “They’re for good luck only.” The woman plucked the asters from her hands and returned to prune the withered leaves from a bunch of lilies. “They’re not for sale.”

  Lusielle pushed the hood away from her face and undid the cloak to show the common clothes she wore beneath the red cloak. “Perhaps you may reconsider?”

  The woman’s striking black eyes widened for an instant, before a guarded expression erased the surprise from her face. “You’re not an Ascended.” She motioned to the back of the stall, where Lusielle positioned herself by the tiny window in the rear corner, the only source of light and air in the long and narrow booth, offering a limited view of Vestor and the surrounding area.

  “You’re not who I expected,” the woman said.

  “Who are you?” Lusielle asked.

  “I could ask the same question of you.”

  Lusielle spotted several men wearing the king’s colors su
rrounding Liliaveth’s shrine. “I have very little time. I got your note. Speak now or miss your chance.”

  “The note wasn’t for you.”

  “But I’m the one who could come—”

  “I’m running a high risk talking to you—”

  “Your risk is minimal compared to his.”

  “It’s true, but—” The woman hesitated. “I’m Hillisel. I’m one of Hato’s. Are you?”

  Lusielle didn’t dare lie outright. “I know Hato.”

  “Did you hear?” A neighboring vendor irrupted into the flower stall. “The times of the suffering are near!”

  “What?” both women said in unison.

  “It’s true,” the vendor said. “One of the Ascended heard the relic speak! There was a worshipper in there. They’re looking for him now to confirm the revelation. The courtyard is in upheaval.”

  “Morons,” Hillisel mumbled, watching as the meddlesome woman moved on to the next stall to spread the gossip. “It was probably a fart from all that putrid flesh. These idiots will believe anything.”

  Lusielle counted herself as an idiot for being here, but she stuck to her gamble. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t have news, not exactly, but I have a new lead.”

  Lusielle had no idea what the woman was talking about. “What kind of a lead?”

  “This.” The woman held up a small strip of wrinkled vellum.

  “What it is?”

  “I found it in the temple’s archives.” Hillisel unrolled the little strip. “Take a look.”

  Lusielle read the words aloud.

  “The highest will plummet,

  The lowliest will rise,

  A venomous battle decides.

  The damned can’t be freed, but the free can be damned

  Just as surely as the wicked will win.”

  “Is it a riddle?” Lusielle asked.

  “The last line?” Hillisel said. “Don’t you recognize the words in it?”

  “I—”

  As slight as Hillisel was, her fury was a tremendous force. She was on Lusielle like a snarling lioness, slamming her against the stand’s rickety wall as if she were the burliest of thugs.

  The wall rattled. The stand shook. The shears were at Lusielle’s throat faster than the eye could track them.

  “Do you think you can trick me?” Hillisel bared her teeth. “We all know those words. If you don’t know the riddle, you aren’t one of Hato’s.”

  “I—I don’t know the words, that’s true, but I swear, I’m trying to help Bren, I mean the Lord Brennus.”

  “You’re obviously not from Laonia,” Hillisel said. “Why would you want to help him?”

  “He’s been kind to me. He’s worth helping.”

  “He is that.” Hillisel’s dark stare softened.

  Lusielle spotted Orell’s men searching the stalls across the lane. “They’re coming,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Swear to me.” Hillisel pressed the blades against Lusielle’s neck. “Swear upon your life that you’ll deliver this strip only to Hato. Promise me you won’t hurt my Lord Brennus.”

  “I have no intentions of hurting your lord.”

  “What about the Ascended outside?” Hillisel said. “Will he turn me in to the Pious?”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “I swear, I’ll find you and kill you if you betray your oaths.” Hillisel lowered the shears and released Lusielle. “I’m taking a chance, but you’re the only option I have. Now go. Hurry up, before you get both of us caught.”

  Lusielle stuffed the strip in her remedy case and stole out of the flower stand, feeling lucky to have survived Hillisel’s ire. Was the woman a Laonian spy? What was this riddle she was talking about? What about the strip? Why was she here, so far away from her homeland, disguised as a flower vendor?

  Still trying to make sense of her encounter with Hillisel, Lusielle followed Vestor to the other side of the courtyard. The red cloak afforded her enviable protection. Even though Orell’s men flooded the way, no one stopped them.

  Vestor led her to the stores, but he stopped short of the remedy shop, ducking instead into a small, boarded-up shrine located in an alleyway across from the store.

  Lusielle’s nose wrinkled at the stench. “What’s this place?”

  “It’s a desecrated shrine,” Vestor said. “It belongs to one of the fallen gods. The worshippers use it as an outhouse.”

  “No wonder it stinks.” Lusielle took in the tarnished frescoes and the dilapidated almond-shaped pool in the center of the room. Trash floated in a filthy broth of human waste and fetid mold, reflecting in the cracked mirror hanging directly above it. Beneath a crust of grub and soot, the rusting mirror had been shaped like a human eye, adorned with gilded lashes and an obsidian pupil which would have once reflected on the matching pool below.

  Lusielle swept her foot over the dirty floor. In truth I dabble, the pink marble inlaid proclaimed beneath her feet. She may have felt sorry for the fallen god whose house had been so thoroughly defiled, but she had no time for pity.

  She mounted a broken stool and, peeking out the little window, strained to see around the corner. She spotted none of Orell’s men in this part of the yard, but Nelia was already there, sitting on the shop’s stairs, waiting with her chin on her hand.

  “She’s early,” Lusielle said.

  “I’d be eager too if my eye ached as bad as hers,” Vestor said.

  “Stay here.” Lusielle took off the red cloak and traded it for the corked bottle Vestor held out. “Keep an eye out for the king’s men. Warn me if you see them coming.”

  Lusielle eased her way out of the desecrated shrine. Her body was strung in alert. Her eyes swept over the faces around her in constant vigilance. Her legs wanted to break out into a run, but she forced herself to keep calm and approached the woman with an even step.

  “You came!” The woman smiled. “Did you bring the potion?”

  Lusielle handed her the bottle. “Rinse your eye with it at least three times each day. I promise, if you do, your eye will be cured in less than a week.”

  “I thank Izar for your kindness,” the woman said. “I owe you a great debt.”

  “Think of it as a gift from the temples.” Lusielle took her leave.

  “I might indulge in Puercinious’s pleasures a bit much.” The woman trailed right behind her. “But I pay my debts, I do. I’m out of coin today, but surely there’s something of mine you’d want to take in payment—”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I insist.”

  “It’s really not necessary.” Lusielle looked around, mortified that the woman’s fuss would attract Orell and his men.

  “A mule,” the woman said. “I’ve got an old mule if you want it. It’s stubborn but it goes.”

  “A mule?” It could prove useful if they managed to escape. “Where is it?”

  “I’ve got it just yonder, in my little camp on the meadow by the river. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  “I can’t come now.”

  “Then come later, when you’re ready. Ask for Nelia. Everyone knows where I pitch my tent.”

  “I may do that,” Lusielle said. “Now, if you please, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Don’t forget to come for your mule,” Nelia said. “A mule is always handy to have.”

  Lusielle strode on, diving into the maze of back alleys, until she was sure Nelia wasn’t following. When she last looked, the old woman was just standing there, smiling.

  Lusielle rushed back to the desecrated shrine. She thought she saw one of Orell’s goons among the crowd, but when she looked again, he wasn’t there. She circled around the shrine one more time, lingering by the boarded door just to make sure, before she slipped in.

  Her relief lasted but an instant, because Vestor was kneeling on the filthy floor with a sword at his back.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THREE THINGS HAPPENED AT ONCE.


  First, the Ascended at the end of Bren’s sword—the man Bren had surprised in the defiled shrine after he had detected Lusielle and followed her to this forsaken place—lunged for his cane.

  Second, Lusielle screamed. “Don’t!”

  Third, the boards blocking the gate gave way. Orell stole into the chamber with his sword angled for Lusielle’s neck.

  Time slowed down to preview all kinds of disaster, but Bren’s trained mind prevailed, tracking everyone in the room with icy clarity, commanding his movements’ complex sequence. He leapt over the Ascended’s cane, which whistled beneath his feet. The anguish on Lusielle’s face persuaded him from delivering the killing thrust he had planned. Instead, his sword struck flat on the side of the man’s head, a whack that got the idiot out of his way.

  At the same time, Bren caught the cane with his left hand and, launching it like a javelin, pitched it across the small shrine. The cane flew in the air. A wide-eyed Lusielle ducked, avoiding Orell’s blade, which collided with the cane, slicing it neatly into even halves.

  Bren was on Orell before his blade had the chance to find Lusielle again. Swords clashed in frantic parry. He had forgotten how strong Orell was, how accomplished the king’s champion had become since that time long ago when Bren and Orell had trained together as children.

  “Give it up,” Orell said. “You can’t keep running forever.”

  “I’m not the one running from my past,” Bren said.

  “You should’ve agreed to King Riva’s proposal years ago. You could’ve lived in comfort and died in peace.”

  “And sell Laonia out to Riva?” Bren flashed a fierce smile. “I think not.”

  “Come to the king with me,” Orell said. “He’ll give you a fair hearing.”

  “Since when do you believe his lies?”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m not the one who switched loyalties for a handful of coins.”

  Orell’s powerful strikes reverberated through Bren’s bones and tore at his muscles. In a battle of blows, Orell would be the sure winner. But Bren was faster, nimbler on his feet, more flexible and more original in his combinations. A warrior didn’t have to go straight for the heart. There was Orell’s foot, which he punctured after feinting for the belly, and the tendons on the back of the thigh, which he tried to nick as he twisted low to the ground and aimed for the groin.