by Dora Machado
“I’m also baseborn.”
“You’re part highborn—”
“Oh, please, I’d be a disaster at anything highborn,” she said. “I’d show up late for the banquets, wearing stained aprons instead of gowns, reeking of this or that.”
“In any case, I intend to repeal the rule of marriage as soon as it’s legally practicable.”
“I do believe the law needs changing, but not because of me.”
“If we don’t challenge the law, who will?”
“The young who will be raised with open minds and who might one day look at the world without seeing the differences between high and baseborn. Maybe even your Konian godchildren?”
“Do you have an answer for every question and every detail planned?”
“Well,” Lusielle said, “it seems logical that you should adopt those beautiful children, since you can marry your betrothed, but you won’t be able to have children with her.”
“Not that I want to sleep with Eleanor, you know that,” Bren said, “but since she doesn’t bear the Goddess’s mark, she would die for sure if she lay with me, like those other women died.”
It wasn’t a question. It was more like an admission. Lusielle knew that nothing she could say would ever erase the pain and guilt that Bren felt, so she reached out for his hand and squeezed it softly.
“I told you it was worse than you thought,” he said quietly. “Do you think some sins can be forgiven?”
“Healing can take place, even in the mortally wounded.”
“What if—?”
“You won’t kill me.”
“I would never forgive myself if I harmed you.”
“So you’ll marry me, but you won’t bed me. Is that what you’re saying?”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Part of me has always known,” Lusielle said. “Fate, remember? I saw it written on my flesh. The other part of me believes the curse giver.”
“How can you believe anything that evil creature says?”
“The provisions of a friendship curse now make her my friend.”
“Those provisions don’t prevent her from lying to you.”
“The more you know someone, the better you get at telling their truth from their lies.”
“Only you would want to get to know the curse giver,” Bren said, grimacing at the notion.
“It was a fair trade,” Lusielle said. “Your life for her friendship. It’ll be interesting.”
“I don’t trust her,” Bren said, “never will.”
“Then trust me.”
“What if it’s all a trap?”
“The highest will plummet; that’s you, highborn. The lowliest will rise. That’d be me. A venomous battle decides. That’s a direct reference to this trial of yours. The curse damned the line of Uras by poisoning the seed of your father’s male descendants. That’s why your ‘trial’ was so difficult to survive.”
“And yet you think you can survive it.”
“For every ailment there’s a mix, for every poison there’s a cure.”
“Do you think you’re my cure?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“The damned can’t be free, but the free can be damned,” Bren said. “You’d be turning poisonous along with me.”
“Likely, but manageable.”
“It’s a matter of proportions, isn’t it?” he said. “A drop of poison in a cup of wine kills the one who drinks it. That same poisonous drop, diluted in a jug of wine, might barely grant the drinker a belly ache and the runs.”
Lusielle’s brow went up. “Since when have you become so interested in mixing and proportions?”
“The poison would still be there,” he said. “You’d be sharing it with me. Or else—”
“Or else what?”
“You’d have to take something. Or you’d want me to take something.”
“Like a brew or a potion?”
“Yes, that’s it, a neutralizing potion of some sort—”
“And that would bother you?”
“If it somehow harmed you—”
“I mix remedies to heal, not to harm.”
“I’m not sure you understand.” Bren took a deep breath. “You wanted children and whether the curse would allow it or not, we couldn’t risk sharing my fate with an innocent or peopling the world with a murderous line.”
“I know,” Lusielle said, parting with her old dreams while aiming for new ones. “Our children don’t have to be born from my body. Maybe I could help care for Irina, Caryna and Marcus.”
“You’d have to move to Laonia.”
“I was planning on a move before.”
“Laonians aren’t always kind to strangers.”
“But even strangers need remedies.”
“Think about this,” Bren said. “You might regret this arrangement.”
“I object to the impracticalities of marriage, but I like the idea of you and me and no one else. Besides, you’d really ruin my life if you died because you’re so stubborn.”
“You can’t ask me to throw all caution away.”
“You won’t kill me,” she said. “And may I remind you that right now you thrive only because of the potion, and that if you get sick again the soul chaser can still come after you?”
Bren smirked. “Ah, yes, the soul chaser.”
“What?” Lusielle smelled mischief. “Have you seen him?”
“He has no reason to come after me at the moment.”
She always knew when he lied.
“I wonder if we’re really so different from them,” Bren said.
“From who?”
“The curse giver. The soul chaser.”
“What do you think?”
“They are selfish, wicked creatures.”
“I’m feeling quite selfish and wicked at the moment.”
“Me too,” Bren said. “Are you sure this is the only way to survive the curse?”
“I’m sure,” she said.
“You’d never be able to be with anyone else.”
“I don’t want to be with anyone else.”
“But are you sure?
“I want to be your lover.”
The look in his eyes was all fire and flames. The heat of his body enfolded her in a furious embrace. He went for her mouth like a man whose life depended on her lips. Nestled in the hearth of his arms, Lusielle knew she had come full circle. She had always been meant for the fire.
“Some waits are worth the anguish,” he whispered against her mouth. “You’d have to stick with me forever.”
“Forever’s fine,” she said. “I’m hoping that with good practice I might develop some talents that will suit you, talents I hope you’ll find indispensable in short order, if you can get over your apprehensions.”
“You think I’m scared?”
“I’m a little scared also.”
“I’m well trained if not recently practiced,” he said. “You, on the other hand, have good reasons to be terrified.”
“The past is done and I’m used to handling all kinds of ingredients,” she said. “Disappointing you, now that’s terrifying.”
The smile on his face was joy’s honest breakthrough. “You’ll never disappoint me.”
“And you’re not going to hurt me, so quit worrying about it.”
“That’s pure cockiness speaking, considering your broken arm, your bruised ribs and your collection of assorted injuries.”
“Now you’re talking practicalities,” she said. “You’re not exactly in fighting form either.”
He laughed. “You’ve always fancied the wounded and the ailing.”
“That’s ‘cause I believe in healing, for all in nature seeks balance—”
“And all in balance fares well,” Bren said. “How are we going to do this?”
She kissed him and her heart was a kettle brimming with all kinds of rare ingredients. “Very carefully.”
Epilogue
THE CURSE GIVER STO
LE INTO THE shop through her usual clever way. Favoring the serpent’s sleek shape, she peeked out from the water basin, scouting the place in stealth. Spying continued to be one of her preferred thrills. She knew the names of all the crew now.
The Laonian highborn Severo leaned against the door’s threshold like the common bodyguard he had become, talking to some pretty wench who was promising a kiss or two for later. Little Marcus, the red-haired toddler, sat on the porch rolling his reef ball back and forth to that ugly creature Carfu, who encouraged him with some ridiculous cooing. Elfu, the other monkey man, was supervising Irina’s sums in the corner. To this day, Neverus gave Jalenia the shivers.
Vestor came out of his healing chamber, leading a recovered patient out the door. He flashed Lusielle that adoring smile that only a man smitten by a woman’s competency can offer. Poor healer. He’d had to come to terms with being first, but only as a partner in trades. They worked well together. If only all those fine outstanding Laonians who frequented the shop knew about the oddities among them.
“Welcome,” Lusielle said from her post at the counter, manning her pestle next to little Caryna, who mimicked a similar preparation in her smaller pestle. “How are you today?”
Jalenia let out a frustrated groan. The mixer’s senses, combined with that pesky amulet of hers, consistently thwarted the curse giver’s attempts at lurking undisturbed. Jalenia had tried to steal the stupid amulet several times now, but Lusielle had made a point of keeping it on her person at all times.
The curse giver missed those simple days when sneaking around had been easy and she hadn’t had to bother with pleasantries. Not that she bothered with those now. Some things might have changed, but not her nature.
“Jalenia!” Little Caryna rushed over and poked her watery cheek with a forceful kiss. “Can you please do that fountain thing again? Pleeeeeease?”
How embarrassing, and yet the curse giver couldn’t really resist little Caryna’s appeals. Swelling her cheeks, she blew a graceful arch of water across the room, aiming at the empty cup next to Irina. The girls shrieked in delight, prickling the curse giver’s sensitive ears with the irritating sound. The Neverus glowered. A startled Vestor got wet when he unwittingly walked into the water spurt.
“Stop that!” He wiped his face. “People around here are going to think we’re all strange.”
“As if they don’t suspect it.” Lusielle laughed. “I warned you this shop would be unlike any other place you’d ever worked at.”
The clatter of hooves announced the cavalcade’s arrival. The children ran out to greet the newcomers. The neighbors had gotten used to the ruckus. Or maybe the Lord of Laonia was bribing them to look the other way. That was probably it.
“He’s back so soon?” the curse giver said. “Won’t he stay away for day or two at least?”
“He lives upstairs, silly, but you know that. He works at the seed house, but he dwells with me.”
Jalenia groaned. “I don’t know how you can stand having him around this much.”
“Someday,” Lusielle said, “you too may find someone you want to be with all the time.”
“I’d kill him,” the curse giver said, “and I don’t mean it as a figure of speech.”
Lusielle shook her head and, dropping the pestle, wiped her hands on her apron. By then the lout had made it into the shop, all dressed in Laonia’s garish blue, all handsome, she supposed—if a creature cared about those things—all lord and ruler, except for the toddler giggling in his arms.
He greeted Lusielle with a kiss. Yuck. All that kissing. It was bound to hurt the lips. But these two liked it, and occasionally— mostly because she knew it was naughty and very wrong—the curse giver enjoyed spying on the mischief that took place in their bed.
“Good day?” Lusielle asked.
“Excellent progress,” the Lord of Laonia said. “She’s here again?”
“She’s always welcome.” Lusielle hushed his objections with another kiss.
“Behave.” The lout waved a finger at the curse giver’s liquid face. “And stay out of our bedchamber or I’ll have to throw you out like I did last night. What a waste of clean water that was.”
The curse giver glared, but she liked the suspicion she spotted in the lord’s eyes, the steady undercurrent of pure loathing that passed between them. Those were emotions worth living with and for. Those were the moments that still thrilled her existence. He might have accepted her presence in Lusielle’s household, but he had not forgotten that she had killed his father and brothers, and he would never forgive.
He knew she was dangerous, would always be so, would never be anything other than what she was. He was a creature after her own heart, a dangerous foe, still cursed, an oddity if only because he was her curse’s sole survivor. She had never met a survivor of her work before, but she liked the scent of his scarred soul. Friends were hardly interesting when you thrived among enemies.
Sometimes, she regretted the curse hadn’t killed the lord outright. If it had, she might have secured better access and more time with Lusielle. But if he had died, the remedy mixer might have refused to live on, and that would not do.
The remainder of the lord’s cavalcade began to trickle in. Clio, Petrus, Cirillo, Severo and most of the Twenty trampled through the store escorting the lord’s crafty sister—that cunning witch, Hillisel—sweeping Vestor along in their revelries.
As the rowdy group made their way to the expansive courtyard that stood among the fragrant gardens, they greeted the curse giver politely and without a second look. It took time to adjust to that kind of reaction, especially when one was used to the terror, screaming and sobbing that usually accompanied her sightings.
Irina came next, holding hands with the Lady of Tolone and her bodyguard, Tatyene, chatting incessantly in that annoying way of hers. Irina’s elaborate dress resembled the Lady of Tolone’s elegant gown, but when the child smiled, she sported a pair of sharpened canines filed just like Tatyene’s. The kid might yet have hope.
The old shrewd Hato came in last, escorting the ladies Khalia and Ernilda. The latter had become the new ruler of Barahone and had just arrived to spend a few days with her childhood friend. The two women had an odd connection. The curse giver suspected a cradle hex.
Ernilda bolted for the courtyard, avoiding the curse giver as if she was stricken by the plague. Jalenia was hardly offended. On the contrary, it was fitting that people should fear her. But Khalia had none of Ernilda’s compunctions. She made a straight line for the curse giver, scouring her with that eerie gray stare.
“Have you considered accepting my invitation?” Khalia said. “Will you visit with us for a few days? There’s so much more I’d like to know about you. There’s so much we could talk about.”
The curse giver drew back a little. Khalia was no longer a servant of Teos and her inhaler days were over, but Jalenia was still wary of her craft, suspect of her old associations and frankly a bit unsettled by the old witch. People like Khalia were always, well, odd. Once a freak, always a freak. One had to be careful with the experienced ones. One had to be cautious.
“I may come,” the curse giver said. “I may not come. What says he of your invitation?”
“Hato doesn’t mind. He can be cranky at times, but he holds no grudges. Isn’t it true?”
“If you say so, dear,” Hato said in passing.
There was nothing but reproach in that long and lined face, nothing but dislike, resentment and antipathy. Oh, how she thrived on hatred like his. Hato and his lord gave an old gal hope that evil would always remain popular and good was only a different approach to evil. As long as there was wickedness in the world, the curse giver would thrive and her place in this realm would be assured.
Everything else mattered little, everything else except for Lusielle. She was a novelty in her life, someone unknown and unexpected, someone whose behavior had to be watched and learned. It was going to be a fine dance. Nothing like a mortal trying to rise above her
condition to entertain a fiend. Or to make one think.
Lusielle stripped off her apron and smoothed out her skirt. “Dinner?”
“Why do you always ask?”
“Perhaps one day you’ll stay.”
“Not today.” The curse giver withdrew to the basin, but she didn’t leave right away. Concealed below the rim, she watched Lusielle lock the front door and flip the little sign in the window to the “closed” position. Her Neverus waited patiently by the back door. Lusielle checked to make sure everything was in its place, replacing her annotation book on the stand and opening it to the curse giver’s favorite page.
“See you tomorrow?” she said.
“Maybe,” the curse giver said.
“Good night, then.”
The curse giver snaked out of the basin one last time and slithered to the window, to watch the remedy mixer join her friends at the table set on the terrace overlooking the endless Laonian steppes. They were an odd collection, a fellowship unlike any she had ever witnessed before, proof that the curses she had cast had surprising if unintended consequences.
Lusielle didn’t know it yet, but Jalenia strived to stay up with the latest gossip. It was yet another advantage brought about by her watery travels. Word was that the cursed lord was searching the Sea Port Cities for Tristan, the mixer’s brother, and planned to surprise her by inviting him to come to Laonia when he found him.
The lord was a fool. Why would he trouble himself with such trivialities when he had Lusielle firmly in his clutches? He was such a strange man, strong in so many ways, weak when it came to the mixer.
Watching Lusielle take her place next to the Lord of Laonia reminded the curse giver of the things she had learned and the knowledge that still eluded her. Sharing deadly poisons could mean life, and even the fatally cursed could thrive in this dangerous world.
On the other hand, lies and truths mingled together like flavors on an eager tongue. Could a simple woman’s will change the outcome of a deadly trial? Was a curse giver’s sudden whim the only way to breach an impregnable curse?
The curse giver slithered over to the stand. She liked to gaze at the book. It was her secret pleasure. Jalenia. Her name looked good in ink. I curse thee with a perpetual spell of friendship. L.