The Cursed Read online

  Well, that distracted you, didn't it? Bulion stared back at the ring of dismayed faces. Of course I think I'm dying, you oafs! So do you all think I'm dying! He heard the unwilling agreement under the denials shouted aloud. I'm lying; you're lying. We've always lied to one another. But people have to. None of us is perfect. We're all ashamed of ourselves sometimes. We just have to live with ourselves and with one another. I'm not dead yet. I'm deeply moved that you all care so much. I'm terrified I'm going to weep in front of you all now. I wish you'd stop shrieking like magpies and get me to a surgeon.

  There were no secrets near a Jaulscath.

  Polion again: Did it! Real man! Go back now. He was returning. Hope they're all properly appreciative. Family hero. Stuff that up Wosion's bowels. He was still whistling unmistakable overtones of lust, too, the horny young devil! Get a whore tomorrow. Mercenary soldier. Oh, offal! Can they hear that?

  Abruptly, the mental tumult ceased. The madness faded. The Cursed had moved out of range, taking his loot—no, her loot. Polion had met a woman.

  Half the women were weeping. Half the men looked ready to murder the first person who spoke. No one was comforting anyone. No one was even looking at anyone else. How permanent was the damage?

  Perhaps youth had fewer secrets to worry about, or perhaps Polion had been too busy to take offense, for he seemed quite cheerful as he came swaggering through the middle of the group to report to Bulion. His eyes were bright with excitement.

  "It's a woman!" he shouted. "I mean she is. Not very old. Thin as a rope!"

  "From Daling, undoubtedly." Wosion looked as haggard and shifty-eyed as anyone. Pastors were human and fallible too. "They had that outbreak of the star sickness in the spring. The empire used to drive out the Cursed, so Daling did." His efforts to speak calmly made him sound even more pompous than usual.

  "Who could stand them around?" Elim muttered.

  Bulion's voice was a hoarse mumble. "Will you go back and talk to her?"

  Polion licked his lips. "Go back?"

  "Take her another bag. Ask her to wait here until we return—in a few days. We'll take her home with us. We'll take her in, give her food and shelter."

  The mutinous outburst of disagreement silenced him. He could not shout and he was too beat to explain anyway. He sent Polion a look that said, Do it, lad, please?

  The boy glanced around, puffed out his meager chest triumphantly, and marched off toward the copse. Silence fell as the others watched him go. The men moved off toward the horses, frowning and whispering. Perhaps they thought their precious Old Man was delirious. Well, he wasn't. And he wasn't going to waste breath telling them. Let them work it out for themselves.

  Meanwhile, he would have to get himself onto Thunder's back again somehow. He felt better than he had earlier. Excitement helped. And there was no need to pretend now. That helped too. Moreover, the fates had just reminded him that life was still worth enjoying, even the last few drops. Never before had he ever met a Jaulscath, or any Cursed. Not a pleasant experience, but one to think about. Daling might have driven out many more, and worse than Jaulscaths.

  The empire had never tolerated the Cursed very well. The Zarda had done better, but it was hard to imagine anyone putting up with Jaulscaths, who would quickly make everyone insane, including themselves. Jaulscaths seemed fated to be hermits. Yet there were legends of kings and emperors employing them as interrogators or gatekeepers. No spy or assassin could slip past Jaulscaths undetected. All you needed was a palace large enough to keep them away from everyone else. Tharn Valley was plenty big enough. Build the wretched woman a cottage near the road and she could detect any enemy approaching. She'd need some way to signal... trumpet, horse, bonfire? He could work out the details later... the kid did well... must give him another eagle... support the brothels of Daling... mercenary soldier?...

  9

  Shortly before sunset, Wosion called a halt. There would be light to see for a while yet, but the horses were dragging badly. Polion privately approved of his choice, a secluded spot with a small brook and a few spindly trees. It also commanded a good view of the western sky. The moors were giving way to settled lands, with far-off glints revealing the great Flugoss river itself. Much farther and they would find themselves neck-deep in landowners, charging rent for a few ells of ground to camp on.

  The Old Man was in desperate shape. Polion saw Wosion and Farion lift him from the saddle and found it depressingly like watching a corpse being carried off to burial. The women began building a fire.

  Polion took charge of Thunder, to make himself useful. Thunder was too weary even to snap at Butterfly, whom he disliked just as much as Polion did. He unsaddled both horses, rubbed them down with the best grass he could find, hobbled them. They would get oats tomorrow in Daling.

  Nothing to what Polion was going to get tomorrow in Daling! He had spent most of the afternoon fingering the Old Man's two gold eagles and planning the delights they would buy him. The first had been surprising enough—if that would buy him the best in the house, what could he get with the second? There had been little else to do, except keep an eye out for trouble that had not materialized.

  The family had been in no mood for conversation, riding in black silence like a funeral procession. Apparently the Jaulscath had brought out some unwelcome truths—Polion had been so busy concentrating on the Jaulscath herself that he had missed most of the fun. Aneim's obvious efforts to avoid Vardion indicated that their little secret was now not so secret any more. Who would break the sad news to Kilbion when they got home? Somebody would, and then Kilbion would break every bone Vardion possessed, in two places.

  The sun was disappearing into the mists of the horizon. Polion chose a vantage point and stretched out with his back against a tree, not looking at the sunset. He had the best eyes in the family, Wosion said. The sky was clear. They should get some good portents tonight. He yawned, stretched. Fates, it had been a long day! He wondered how the old folk had stood it.

  A twig snapped. He glanced around and there was Farion, preparing to hide his blubbery torso inside a smock.

  Farion's homely, cheerful face split in a grin. "How's it going?"

  "I've got blisters from my knees to my belly button. How about you?"

  "The fates you have! You're all whipcord." The fat man hauled the smock over his head. When he reappeared he winked. "Fancy sampling a little nightlife when we get to the big city, mm?"

  "Sounds good."

  Farion winked again. "Don't say anything to the girls, mm? You know how they tattle. But if we can slip away, I may be able to show you some interesting things."

  "Doesn't that cost money, Uncle?"

  "Oh, I'll take care of it. Every hawk's got to make his first kill. Your brother ought to attend to it, but you know what Jukion's like. Not tomorrow—got to be fresh, right? The next night. See you then, mm?"

  "That's very kind of you, Uncle. I can't wait."

  "Big man now, right?" With another wink, Farion turned and lumbered off.

  Very interesting! That made three. Polion jingled his pocket thoughtfully.

  Elim had not spoken a word to anyone all afternoon. Just before Wosion had called halt, she had moved her horse close to Butterfly. Even then, she had ridden in daunting silence for a while, glaring straight ahead, her silvery hair floating in disarray. Her smock was stained with sweat and road-dust. Polion had been content to study the way her bosom bounced with the horse's gait and fantasize about what those gigantic breasts might weigh. She must have been a sizzler when she was young.

  "You did well with the Jaulscath, Polion." She snapped the words out. What was gnawing her? Just worry about the Old Man, or had Polion committed some sin without meaning to? He rarely did that. He usually meant to. Trouble was, he tended to get blamed for other peoples' as well as his own.

  "It was nothing, Aunt." Bother! He'd forgotten he'd been promoted. "Feeling weary, Elim?"

  "Do I look so exhausted?"

  "Well, no. I
mean of course not! Just that in your condition you should take care."

  She quirked an eyebrow at him. "My, we're a man of the world now, aren't we?"

  "Hadn't you noticed?" he said flippantly, planning his response when she said no, she hadn't.

  But dear plump Aunt Elim turned her face away to examine the moors, study a bird heading home with something in its claws... then she cleared her throat harshly. "Yes I had. That's what I came to say. I owe you an apology."

  Polion could not ever recall getting an apology before. Having his hide tanned until he made one—that was almost an everyday occurrence. "You, Elim? What on earth for?"

  "Father's remarks about you and Meilim in the hay this morning... they reminded me of my own youth."

  "Oh yes?" This was becoming interesting.

  "I'm afraid I wondered... Well, I know I gave myself away when the Jaulscath..." Her motherly face was red as the sunset. Redder, in fact. He stared at her in astonishment, and then felt his own cheeks flush in sympathy. Fates!

  What in the world did a man answer? Adulthood was a lot more complicated than he had realized. Humor... No, humor would be absolutely the wrong response.

  "I don't see why you need apologize. I didn't notice, but it's very flattering. And I do that all the time now. I mean, I can't look at a woman without wondering—any woman!"

  She smiled. "Thank you. A very courteous reply, Polion!"

  "Just now I was admiring your bosom, wondering what you looked like and, ah, felt like, and..."

  She gasped. "I think we had better change the subject!"

  "Why? I wouldn't mind a quick—"

  "Polion!"

  He shrugged. She'd started it.

  "Listen!" she said quickly. "Father's not well, as you know. Otherwise I'm sure he would attend to this himself. As he's not... well, I thought I'd take care of it for him. Here."

  She thrust a hand over to him and dropped four silver coins into his palm.

  "Well, thank you, Aunt Elim! For me?"

  "Yes. It's a sort of family tradition, the first time a... What I mean is, you ought to have some spending money in the city. You might want to buy a gift for Meilim, or something."

  He could imagine nothing he would be less likely to waste money on. He thanked Elim again, and she rode off without offering any more helpful suggestions. He added the coins to his collection. He wondered exactly how her mind had been working. Funny to think of old Aunt Elim having a guilty conscience! Even funnier to imagine her waylaying him in the hayfield. He wouldn't mind a lesson or two from a woman with experience, to show him the ropes.

  And now Farion! Very curious! The whole family seemed to want to help him get rid of his virginity as soon as possible. Well, he wouldn't struggle. Maybe when he'd done it, then he'd be able to think about other things once in a while.

  The sun had gone—Poul, bringer of life and death, now in the House of Men. Polion sat up, crossed his legs, and inspected the sky. There was still too much glare to hope to find Awail's thin crescent yet. He turned and peered eastward, toward the advancing night—straight at red Muol, the Passionate One, bringer of love and war. There were not enough stars out to be sure what house she was in, but it was probably still the House of Children. Muol was in opposition to Poul, which must be important, except that neither passion nor children seemed relevant to Grandfather.

  That morning he had seen the dawn star in the House of Sorrows. That was clearly bad, and one bad portent usually meant that the others should be interpreted as bad also. Jaul, the Bright One, had been in either Leaders or Lovers, which was always a tricky call. Jaul as giver of law and truth explained the Jaulscath of course, because she made lies impossible. Some of Grandfather's tales about the old ways mentioned the Zarda using Jaulscaths to hear evidence and judge disputes. Law did not seem relevant to the family problem, but Jaul also gave chaos, the opposite of law. That fitted with the Jaulscath too, throwing the family into disorder.

  "Any luck?" Wosion was limping up the slope to him.

  "Not yet. What house is Jaul in?"

  Wosion settled to the ground with a sigh of weariness. "Leaders."

  "Oh!" Chaos? Not good news for Grandfather.

  "But Jaul is regressing. Retrograde motion means the house sign is reversed."

  Polion pondered. "That could still mean either good or bad news!"

  To his astonishment, his uncle chuckled. "Lad, have you ever considered becoming a pastor?"

  "Me?" He glanced at Wosion's misshapen leg and then looked away again quickly.

  "Why not? You have good eyes and quick wits."

  Oh fates! "Pastors are supposed to make people behave themselves. My talents run the other way."

  Wosion rubbed his long nose. "It doesn't hurt to know about misbehavior. I feel lust and envy, too, lad. I was just as shamed by the Jaulscath today as anyone. A lot of a pastor's work is keeping people's spirits up and you're good at that. You drive people to distraction, but you make them laugh at the same time. That's a valuable talent."

  That was all horse droppings! "The only time I make you laugh, my dear Uncle Wosion, is when you're sentencing me to a week on the wood pile!"

  The pastor guffawed. "You underestimate yourself. That trick you pulled last year with the grass snakes in the laundry... I kept waking up in the night laughing about that! All the men had hysterics over it. We laughed for months."

  "What!" Polion howled. "You gave me two weeks on the woodpile for that, and you took the skin off my butt with your switch first!"

  "Yes, I did. I had to do my duty. And you deserved it—you might have caused half a dozen miscarriages. But we all love you for it."

  Polion grunted bitterly. Strange way of showing affection!

  "About your question just now," Wosion said, serious again. "The others will want to hear the portents tonight. I shall tell them that the bringer of order is in the House of Leaders, and because she is regressing that becomes the House of Followers. They will be encouraged. But?"

  "But she can equally well bring chaos!"

  "Exactly!" Wosion sighed. "The portents can almost always be read two ways. Usually there is a clue, as you know—a clue to tell us which way they should be read. But that clue can be very hard to find. Often a pastor just has to make his own judgement."

  "The bringer of sickness in the House of Sorrows must... There! Look! Under that branch!" A tiny gem glowed in the twilight, low in the fading rays of Poul.

  "Where?" Wosion cried, screwing up his eyes. "I can't see... Yes!" he shouted. "You're right! It is Ogoal!"

  The Faint One had returned, the Swift One, the arbiter of fortune.

  "Good luck or bad?" Polion demanded excitedly.

  "I think good. She can give either, of course, but she always means the unexpected, especially when she first appears, as she does now. We must expect the unexpected!"

  "Grandfather is going to live, then? Isn't he, Wosion?"

  "I think so, Polion. I really think so. That is the clue! Run and tell the others, so they can all see, and rejoice."

  BOOK TWO,

  the book of

  IVIEL,

  who is Health,

  Star of Evening,

  bringer of wounds and sickness,

  Star of Morning,

  the Healer,

  the Comforter

  10

  Gwin Nien Solith had spent the day on what Carp would have called a tiger hunt. Once, when young, he had let himself be talked into joining a tiger hunt. When telling the tale afterward, he had insisted that the worst part had been waiting for the beaters to drive the tiger to the hunters. All sorts of other things had come bursting out of the undergrowth first: rabbits and wild pigs and jungle hens, all making far more racket than the tiger did when it finally came. He had been killed ten times by rabbits, twenty times by hens, and so on. The real tiger encounter had been over so fast that he could barely remember it. The hard part had been all those rabbits.

  Gwin had spent the day wai
ting for her future husband, the odious Kolo Gurshith, and jumping at rabbits.

  Soon after dawn, the crier had proclaimed their engagement. A few neighbors dropped in to congratulate her on so advantageous a match—if any of them knew Kolo, they were too kind to admit it. The poetic Sint Hailith sent her a letter of heart-broken farewell, which she acknowledged with a note of thanks, but none of her other suitors reacted. They presumably knew better than to risk the Gurshiths' enmity.

  Except for Tibal Frainith, the previous day's guests had all departed promptly after witnessing the unpleasantness. No others had taken their place that evening, and none had arrived during the day. She wondered if the Phoenix Street Hostel, now it was included in the Gurshith sphere of influence, had been blacklisted by all his political and business opponents.

  She had given the crier a quarter eagle to announce that the hostel required a willing, able-bodied man for the position of porter. She had interviewed fourteen applicants. None of them had been acceptable—drunks, cripples, or shifty-eyed convicts with felon brands on their shoulders. Fortunately there were no horses to tend, so Tob had been temporarily promoted, but the complexities of the work were beyond Tob. The porter was required to haul the water from the well, escort Mai to and from the market, chop wood for the kitchen range, and do a dozen other menial things. It took longer to explain a job to Tob than to just do it.

  Shuma belatedly mentioned that the butcher had failed to deliver for several days and the meat larder was now empty.

  And so on. Rabbits, all rabbits, but every time the bell on the outer door jangled, Gwin's heart flew over the roof.

  The mysterious Tibal wandered in and out all day. He claimed he was sight-seeing. If so, then his idea of sight-seeing was to view one notable temple or statue, return to the hostel to make notes in his journal, then go out to view another. He had refused to elaborate on his cryptic predictions of the previous day—indeed he had looked blank when she mentioned them. He might be a Shoolscath, because Shool's Curse of prophecy usually drove its victims insane very quickly. He might just be plain-ordinary insane. He was pleasant enough, she concluded, but he had lost a few buttons somewhere.