The Cursed Page 36

  "I know all that claptrap!"

  "—on myself, and I may also disable the glory that will be Gwin's."

  Glory? Glory? What sort of a selfish old fool was he, to be worried about his own comfort, his own self-esteem, when Gwin had a chance for glory?

  "Glory?" He squeezed her tighter. "Is that what you want? Glory?"

  She did not answer. He had never seen her subdued like this. Several swallows swooped in and the nestlings set up a greedy racket.

  "The first thing they taught me at Veriow," Wosion remarked, "and the last thing, was that a pastor's paramount duty is to help his flock accept whatever the fates send. I have never found that advice harder to give than I do now, or seen it as weaker comfort."

  Gwin spoke as if she had not heard him. "No, I don't want glory, love. I want what you want—to go back to the valley and live in peace. But that isn't our choice at the moment. Either I continue to defy Labranza Lamith and try to master her, or we throw ourselves on her mercy. Which should it be, Bull? You decide."

  He did not know what to say. Those who threw themselves on that woman's mercy were not likely to have a soft landing. "I'd sooner shave eggs for a living than trust that one. I think you have to go on for now, love."

  She glanced sideways at him. "You see how it will be? One thing leads to another. Every choice brings you more choices and drags you along a little farther. You can't dismount from the tiger."

  Zanion had come in and was approaching the shocked little group around the table, but nobody paid him any heed.

  "This is true," Wosion said. "Pantholion wanted to save his people from the Karpana. He led them across the Nildu and petitioned the empire to give them safe grazing somewhere. He offered fealty. The empire feared him, refused him, and tried to drive the Zarda back. Pantholion resisted. In the end he sacked Qol and smashed the empire, smashed the fragments that rose against him, smashed everyone until there was nothing left."

  "And Losso the reverse?" Bulion asked glumly.

  Gwin answered. "Losso the same. Raragash was a pit of savages. He discovered that he could be their master. At first all he wanted was to escape and live in civilization instead of being a beast. The empire tried to hunt him down, an escaped Cursed. He was forced to fight back. In the end he took the throne and his line raised the empire to the greatest glory it ever knew."

  "Those two succeeded, love. Tell me of the ones who failed! Seems to me that you can only recognize a Poulscath after he's dead."

  "Labranza's very words!" Tibal said cheerfully. "She will convene the council meeting this evening, but she won't let you in, Gwin. You have to prove that you're a Poulscath, and there is no way you can. So Labranza says, anyway. Baslin won't concede without proof, so she'll have the deadlock she needs."

  Gwin picked up the fig and bit into it. "Maybe. Losso and Pantholion both arose when the times were ripe. They couldn't look any riper than they do right now. But which is worse? To try and raise an army against the Karpana, or hide in these hills and let them waste the kingdoms one by one? Either way, Kuolia drowns in blood. Which road leads to the lesser slaughter?"

  Bulion recalled his dream of the infinite cows.

  "Not even a Shoolscath can ever know that sort of answer," Tibal said.

  She frowned at him. "The council will meet at sunset?"

  He swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple jumping. "Remember I'm like the others, Gwin—I can't refuse to answer your questions. In this case there's no harm in it, but please don't keep asking."

  "Sorry."

  "Yes, sunset. Ordur's gone off to be confirmed by his group. No risk there—Jasbur's got them all fired up already. Ziberor has a long way to come."

  But what would the council meeting solve? Labranza only needed two. She could control the Muolscath, and the Ziberor woman was her strongest supporter. Others might rally to her side to counter this unknown threat. Bulion realized that Gwin was looking at him with an odd expression—quizzical? challenging?

  She said, "Poulscath nonsense! Why don't you take that crazy wife of yours to bed and knock some sense into her?"

  "Now? In the middle of the day?"

  She pulled free of his arm and stood up. "That's where I'm going. I didn't get much sleep." She walked away, head proudly high.

  He rose and hurried after her. As he held the door open, he glanced back at the watchers. Wosion looked shocked. Zanion was smiling approvingly. Tibal Frainith had buried his face in his hands.

  53

  Were it possible to knock sense into Gwin in the way she had suggested, Bulion would certainly have succeeded. He excelled himself. She enjoyed the attempt while it was in progress, but the fates could not be driven off for long. She did not slide away into sleep as she had hoped. When her accomplice had recovered his health, she suggested that they go and visit Niad. It was only a short walk to the hospital, along a path she had discovered. He agreed gamely.

  Unfair, unfair! The fates were cruel. Bulion Tharn had done nothing to deserve this. No man had ever wanted to be an emperor less than he did, and the thought of being his wife's puppet would be anathema to him. If she accepted her destiny, it would destroy her husband. If she refused it, it might well destroy both of them. Could she ride the tiger just a little way and then dismount safely?

  Her Voice was the clue.

  "I know nothing of Poulscaths, my dear," Par a'Ciur had said, "except what I have read, which is not much. No one does. But I think that Voice you hear is really yourself, your inner self, your destiny struggling to get out. If we had training for you as we have for other Cursed, then I suspect that the first thing you would learn would be to summon that Voice."

  The Voice did not answer her calls as she lay in bed, with Bulion gasping at her side. It did say one thing as they strolled through the woods to the hospital. She heard a faint rustle in the undergrowth...

  Tharns. Pretend you haven't noticed.

  "What's funny?" Bulion inquired.

  "Just people."

  Good, honest people. It felt wrong to laugh. She was a figure of destiny now, a maker of history, a wader through blood. Laughter ought to be beneath her dignity. It seemed disrespectful to the thousands of people she would kill, all those armies she was going to destroy.

  Madness!

  #

  Niad welcomed her visitors with joy, glowing in a Nurzian gown of a cornflower blue that matched her eyes as well as any human craft ever could. She took the visitors out to sit in an orchard, where Bulion ate an unwise number of peaches. She told Gwin excitedly about her training so far; it was very simple, she said. A Jaulscath spoke the instructions right into her mind from another Ivielscath. She had already been allowed to cure a badly bruised knee. There was nothing to it. It was just a matter of frame of mind, of really wanting to help.

  Of course it was. Motivation...

  "Gwin Saj?"

  Gwin realized that she had been daydreaming, lost in thought. "Bull, love, do you think we might try to warp one of Labranza's little helpers to our cause? Ching Chilith for an obvious instance?"

  "Tibal doesn't think much of him."

  "That's true. Or seems to be true. But Ching Chilith obviously knows all the cupboards and skeletons in this place. He came around this morning while you were... weren't there. Making sure our quarters were satisfactory, he said. Spying, I think."

  Bulion just grunted.

  "His face was screwed up like a prune and he's limping worse than ever."

  "Yesterday he looked like he had a hernia."

  "Or worse."

  Niad's big blue eyes grew even wider. "You want me to try healing a hernia?"

  "No. I want Mandasil to. I don't think it's a hernia."

  "But he's no more experienced than I am, Gwin Saj! Less!" Niad added firmly. "There are lots of wonderful healers here."

  Yes there were, but they were not what Gwin had in mind.

  "He's doing all right," Niad admitted. "He cured an old man from Chan San, who'd come here just for th
at. He was almost blind. Mandasil cured his second eye, after an instructor did the first."

  "Fetch him," Gwin said.

  #

  Leaving Bulion to guard the other side of the door from outraged clerks, flunkies, minions, and under-secretaries, Gwin led Mandasil right into Ching Chilith's palatial office. There was barely room to move between all the tables, statues, candelabra, display cabinets, ornamental screens, painted jars, elaborate imperial divans. The walls oozed tapestries, the rugs were ankle-deep. For a kid, he was doing extremely well in the spoils business. Tibal's slander about him being Labranza's lover seemed far-fetched. He was more likely her son, the crown prince, whether acknowledged or not.

  The only clear space in the room was his great desk. He frowned angrily from behind it like a ground squirrel peeping out of its hole. His personal vestments were a vision of multicolored grandiose pretension. He blustered at the intruders, but so unconvincingly that he must have already learned that Gwin was now the crux of the Tharn matter and the Renewer only a side-effect. Not that she would ever admit such a thing near Bulion.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Ching concluded, which was how he had begun.

  "This man is an Ivielscath. He is going to cure your discomfort."

  Ching's hazel-brown cheeks turned the color of ripe pomegranates. "That will not be necessary!"

  Gwin hitched herself up to sit on the edge of the desk. "Consider it a favor. I heard what Tibal Frainith hinted yesterday. I don't know who did that to you, or why, and we don't care, do we, Mandasil?"

  Ching said, "There is nothing—"

  "I also heard Tibal's nasty gibe that you are so unpopular that you daren't ask the healers to help you. Well, Mandasil has only just arrived in Raragash. He had never heard your name until I mentioned it to him a little while ago. He has an open mind on your character. Don't you, Mandasil?"

  Ching said, "You are trying to bribe me?"

  "Told you—do you a favor. Aren't we, Mandasil?"

  The pomegranates faded to lemons. "An untrained Ivielscath?"

  "But a very skilled one. I have directed his efforts in the past with great success. Haven't I, Mandasil?"

  Ching licked his lips. "You did what?" He was not very convincing.

  "You must have heard? I am a Poulscath. Surely the rumors are about by now? All Cursed must obey me. I say, 'cure!' and they cure. Now, will you let my friend examine you while I turn my back, or do we have to hold you down?"

  Mandasil was not tall, but there was a lot of him that his smock and shorts did not hide. He flexed his stonemason's shoulders and bulged his arms. His smile was low in intelligence and very high in desire to please Gwin Saj.

  Ching capitulated. "Turn your back," he said.

  Gwin studied the tapestries.

  Behind her, Mandasil whistled. "It hurts me just to look at that! Horse kick you or something? I'll start with this bruise on your thigh."

  A minute or so... "There! That's about the size they should be, isn't it?"

  Finally a chuckle: "Take it for a test run tonight and see how it stands up. All done, Gwin Saj."

  He came to her side, beaming like a kid. She headed for the door without looking around. Mandasil was vastly improved from the embittered churl of three weeks ago. Purpose, she supposed—now he knew he could heal, his life had purpose again.

  Hers had far too much. Untrained Poulscaths might be worse than untrained Ivielscaths. They could mar people, but she would blight whole nations.

  She had not heard a word from Ching Chilith. Had he fainted? Was he too embarrassed to speak? Too frightened? Too angry? She went out, Mandasil followed, and the door closed; still Ching Chilith had not uttered a solitary syllable, not even, "Thanks."

  54

  The Tharns gathered in the commons not long before sunset to await their allies on the council, who were going to join them there so that they could all proceed to the meeting together. That was the plan.

  The plan did not work very well.

  The men were wearing their swords. They had not let Gwin out of their sight all day. She wondered if this was part of her destiny—to be guarded for the rest of her life.

  Par a'Ciur swept in, looking like a miniature empress in a royal blue robe. The diadem of garnets in her silver hair should have clashed with the blue, but obviously did not dare to. She peered around the big room and frowned. "No Ordur? Tibal?"

  "I expect they'll be along in a minute," Gwin said.

  The old lady sat down beside her and laid a tiny hand on her arm. She leaned forward eagerly. "I have been glancing through Losso Lomith's memoirs again. I notice that several times he uses expressions like, 'My destiny told me...' and, 'Again I heard the call of destiny!'"

  "So he had a Voice, too?"

  Par's scrawny neck flapped as she nodded. "Exactly!"

  "Well I wish mine would answer a few questions!"

  "Tush, my dear! I don't think it will ever answer questions. I think it will just tell you what is needed. And I suspect all you have to do is accept that it is your destiny."

  Motivation? That might well be the problem. Gwin did not want a destiny. She just wanted to go home.

  Par began to fidget. "Now, where do you suppose those accursed Cursed have gotten to? We'll be late."

  Heavy boots sounded outside—many boots. Metal clashed, moving closer. Armored men shuffled in at both doors, while others outside darkened the windows. They all wore plate mail of antique imperial type. The paint on it had largely flaked or rusted away; the faded plumes on their helmets had been eaten by something.

  The Tharns rose to their feet, hands going to sword hilts.

  Jukion, though, lifted a bench and hefted it like a staff. "Just knock 'em down!" he said. "Get 'em on the floor and they can't move."

  Gwin said, "No! You can't fight the whole crater!" It would be a bloodbath. However absurd the soldiers' gear and however many centuries old it was, if a troop of ironclads clashed with a band of farmers in this confined space, then the farmers would be confetti. The soldiers could win with their eyes shut.

  Bulion had seen that too. He snarled his agreement. Jukion reluctantly laid down the bench.

  An officer clumped in, swaying under the weight of steel he bore. His visor was up, but he carried his sword ready. He lumbered over to the group and almost overbalanced as he came to a halt.

  "Councillor a'Ciur? My men will escort you to the meeting."

  Par rose and stiffened to her full height, which put her about half way up his rust-spotted breastplate. "This is outrageous! Where did you find that historical curiosity? Where are Councilors Ordur and Frainith?"

  "I expect they are waiting for you at the meeting room, Saj." His eyes shifted uneasily. "I have my orders."

  The Ivielscath made a noise that sounded like, "Pshaw! And what of my friends here?"

  "I am instructed that they are to remain where they are." His expression suggested that he was squirming inside his armor. He peered out to locate the most probable leader. "Bulion Tharn Saj?"

  Bulion growled and nodded.

  "You may retain your weapons if you will give your word that they will not be drawn."

  Gwin glanced around. There were at least forty men visible now. "Give him your word, love."

  Bulion's face was inflamed with anger. "Don't have much choice, do we? You have my word, Corporal."

  "Captain!"

  "Whatever. Tell your boss I don't think much of her notions of hospitality."

  The unfortunate soldier seemed almost on the point of agreeing. He nodded with relief—and some difficulty. "Councillor, please?"

  "Pshaw!" Par a'Ciur said again. She patted Gwin's shoulder. "This is absurd! We shall bring this to a vote as the first item of business, my dear, and send for you before anything else is discussed!" She swept past the captain, heading for the door.

  He turned himself around with much clanking and stamping, then swayed slowly forward and began to move after her. Gwin wondered if he had ever
worn armor before.

  Gwin sat down. The men copied her reluctantly.

  After a moment, Bulion broke the festering silence. "How do you rate the little lady's chances?"

  "Not good. It depends on Baslin, and he'll agree to anything that sounds logical. I think Labranza can talk him around to her way of thinking. The first item of business will be an adjournment." Labranza had called the meeting under protest; she had not guaranteed that it would achieve anything. Gwin eyed the guards thoughtfully. "Do you suppose my influence on Cursed works on Blessed as well?"

  "I don't know. I don't think this is a good time to find out. A dead Poulscath would not help anyone except the Labranza bitch."

  For Bulion to use bad words, he must be epochally upset. Everyone was looking to her. When she had faced down Labranza, she had become their leader, for they all knew that the Old Man was out of his depth in this fatalist snare. They expected Gwin to rescue them from it. She had gotten them into it, she supposed. Trouble was, she had been relying on the council. She had no alternative plan. Would Labranza throw them all out of Raragash, to take their chances in the war zone? Or would she lock them in a cell and melt down the key?

  "Why do they obey her?" Thiswion said angrily. "She's not a queen."

  Wosion answered. "She is the legitimate authority. She controls the money, the power, and the glory. Hardest thing in the world is to overthrow tyrants, no matter how evil they may be."

  "I don't think she's really evil," Gwin said. "She just has prestige and wants to keep it. This is her domain. If she admits I'm entitled to a seat on the council, she'll lose her majority. Your heard Par a'Ciur last night—she'd propose me for president right away."

  "You'd do a better job than I would as emperor." Bulion probably meant that remark as a joke, but nobody smiled.

  Gwin realized that she might not ever see Labranza again. The president would put a wall of steel between the Poulscath and all the Cursed in Raragash. Gwin had missed her opportunity in the night, when she had the woman at her mercy. The fall of the East Wing had distracted her.

  The day dwindled outside as the sun dipped behind the cliffs. Whispers in the corridor... boots shuffled in the doorway. There was still enough light to see the boy who squeezed past the guards and came hurrying over. Aha! Gwin jumped up and went to meet him halfway.