The Blood Curse (48 page)

But Vught didn’t come, and with dawn, Jaumé’s imagination shriveled into dust and Vught became just a dead man.

Jaumé put away the knife and lay down beside Bennick. Bennick’s face was the color of a fish’s belly.

If Bennick was ill all day today, and maybe tomorrow as well, then Prince Harkeld might be able to reach the curse stone and break the curse.

Jaumé tried to imagine what would happen after that.

He thought about Bennick taking him back to Fith to train to be a Brother, and he thought about what the soldier had said: that he could go to Lundegaard instead. He didn’t think Bennick would like that.

Jaumé turned it over in his head for a while, and decided that he’d look for the gold coins. He’d take just one, or maybe two—it wouldn’t be stealing, the soldier had said he could take them—and then if he
did
decide to go to Lundegaard, he could.

Having decided that, he snuggled into his blankets and slept.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

H
ARKELD WOKE AT
dawn. Two wolves were in the tent with him. A large silver-pelted male, and a smaller, darker animal. Innis. The male was awake, watching him.

“Morning, Petrus.”

The wolf blinked yellow eyes at him and yawned, showing sharp white teeth.

Harkeld yawned too, and sat up.

Petrus rose to all fours, pushed open the tent flap with his nose, and went out.

Icy air flowed into the tent. Harkeld shivered and groped for his cloak.

Beside him, the second wolf sat up. Harkeld touched her head, briefly stroked the soft fur on her skull.

They’d dreamed together, he and Innis, held each other, talked about Adel.

Innis pressed her nose to his cheek. Greeting? Kiss?

“You want to get dressed?” he asked her. “I’ll get out of here.”

He pulled on his boots, wrapped his cloak around himself, and crawled outside. The air was painfully crisp, stinging his face. He shivered convulsively. “All-Mother, it’s cold.” The inside of his nose burned. Breath billowed from his mouth like smoke.

“Got quite a climb ahead of you today. You’ll be sweating soon enough.” Petrus crouched at the fire, bundled in several cloaks, chewing on a strip of dried goat’s meat.

“You’ve got bare feet,” Harkeld said, disbelieving. “For crying out loud, get dressed!”

“No point,” Petrus said. “Swapping with Justen soon as I’ve eaten.”

Harkeld hunkered down alongside him and reached for some meat. “Did Innis find the Fithians last night?”

Petrus nodded, chewing. “They’re close. We’ll check on them again in a bit.”

“Will it be Innis who goes?”

Petrus glanced at him, and then at the tent. “We’ll see.”

P
ETRUS WAS RIGHT
; it wasn’t long before Harkeld was sweating. The track toiled upwards, even steeper than it had been yesterday. Snow crunched and squeaked beneath his boots.

Mid-morning, Petrus glided down for a drink.

“How much further to the top?” Harkeld asked, panting, wiping his face.

“Couple of hours, then the track follows the ridge for a while. Not as steep as this.” Petrus rammed the stopper back into the waterskin. “Then it goes down the other side. Justen, Innis... one of you want to check on the Fithians?”

“I’ll do it,” Innis said.

“No, I will,” Justen said.

Innis opened her mouth, but Justen held up a hand to forestall her. “You’re the strongest healer we have left
and
a shapeshifter. If anything goes wrong, you’ve a better chance than me or Petrus of getting Flin to the anchor stone.”

“But last night—”

“Last night it was dark. They couldn’t see you. Today’ll be different. They see a hawk checking them out, they’ll take a shot at it. They’re not stupid, Fithians. They know how we work.” And then Justen shrugged, grinned. “And besides, I’ve had enough of climbing this rutting hill. I’m about to get blisters. So do me a favor, Innis; let me do it.”

Innis closed her mouth.

Petrus met Harkeld’s eyes and winked. “Be careful,” he told Justen, then shifted back into a hawk and flew upward.

Harkeld sat on a rock. Breath misted in front of his face. His sweat chilled on his skin. He’d need his cloak if they didn’t start moving again soon.

Justen stripped off his jerkin and shirt, bundled them together, and strapped them on a packsaddle. His Grooten amulet hung like a small round moon over his sternum. “All-Mother, will I be
glad
to stop climbing this hill,” he said, bending to pull off his boots.

Harkeld grunted agreement.

Justen slung his boots over a saddle pommel. “In Margolie, when I did my Journey, we had this fire mage with us, fat old bastard. I remember once, he...” The shapeshifter paused, blinked, a look almost of confusion crossing his face. Then he shook his head. “Ach, what was I saying?”

“In Margolie...” Harkeld said.

But Justen didn’t pick up on the cue. He stood barefoot in the snow, staring at Harkeld as if he didn’t recognize him.

“Justen?”

The shapeshifter shook his head again. His brow creased, an expression of bewilderment.

“Justen?” Harkeld said again, standing. “Are you all right?” And then he saw the curse shadows. They crept upwards over Justen’s skin in a dark, thick tide.

Harkeld froze. “Innis? Get behind me.”

The shape of Justen’s skull hadn’t altered, his muscles hadn’t shifted place under his skin, yet Harkeld could swear they had. The mage’s face was fundamentally and profoundly different. Whatever looked at him out of Justen’s eyes wasn’t human; it was beast.

The shapeshifter’s stance changed—a shifting of weight, a bunching of muscles. It was the same change he’d seen in Adel: predator.

Hair rose on the back of Harkeld’s neck, on his scalp. He daren’t look to see whether Innis had obeyed him, daren’t shift his gaze from Justen. He gathered his fire magic in a sharp, searing rush and raised his right hand. “I’m sorry, Justen.”

Petrus swooped down, shrieking a harsh hawk screech, startling the horses. He landed in the snow and became a lion.

Justen’s gaze fastened on the lion. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. There was no fear on his face, just a fierce, terrible madness.

“Out of the way, Petrus!” Harkeld yelled.

Petrus ignored him. He charged, knocking Justen backwards.

Man and lion rolled in the snow, scattering the horses, and then Innis was there too, grabbing Justen’s bare shoulder.

Justen’s mouth opened in a silent scream. His body arched, spasmed—and went limp.

Innis stepped back. The lion slowly rose to all fours. His mane was unbloodied. His teeth, unbloodied.

Harkeld lowered his hand.

The lion became Petrus. His face was as starkly white as Innis’s.

“What did you think you were doing?” Harkeld bellowed at him. “I just about burned you!”

“He deserved a body to bury!” Petrus yelled back. Tears stood in his eyes. He turned to Justen and knelt, took Justen’s hand, bent his head.

He’s crying.

Innis knelt, too. She put her arms around Petrus and pressed her face into his hair.

Harkeld stood silently. He’d known Petrus and Justen were friends, but he’d not understood how close.

He turned back to the rock he’d been sitting on, lowered himself stiffly, sat with his head in his hands.

After a few minutes, he began shivering. Harkeld stood, even more stiffly, and found his cloak, and Innis’s, and Petrus’s. Petrus still knelt beside Justen, Innis still hugged him. She raised her head and looked at him silently. Harkeld gave her the cloaks—“Keep him warm.”—and then trudged between the silent black tree trunks after the horses. They’d gathered, skittish, about fifty yards down the track.

He rounded them up, brought them back, found a shovel, and began to dig Justen’s grave. Beneath the covering of needles the ground was rocky. Harkeld chipped and gouged a shallow trough. When he looked up, he found Petrus standing there. The shapeshifter had dressed, but his face still had a frozen whiteness.

“I can’t dig any deeper.”

Petrus nodded.

They laid Justen in the grave. His face was peaceful in death. He was no longer a predator, but Justen again. Petrus bent and removed the ivory amulet from around his throat.

Harkeld filled the trench with the dirt and stones he’d dug out. “Too shallow.” Wolves would dig Justen up.

“We’ll cover it with rocks,” Innis said, and she made them bind their hands with strips torn from a blanket—makeshift gloves.

They gathered rocks and placed them on Justen’s grave. Petrus still hadn’t spoken a word. Every muscle in his face was tight. His eyes shone with tears.

“Who wants to say the words to the All-Mother?” Harkeld asked.

Innis glanced at Petrus. “I will.”

She spoke the words, and then they each knelt and laid their hands on the grave and made their own silent farewells.

Goodbye, Justen. We could have been good friends.

Harkeld climbed to his feet again. Petrus had been right. It was better this way. A body to bury, a grave to say words over.

“I’ll guard Flin,” Innis said. “If you want to check the Fithians?”

Petrus nodded. He silently stripped and bundled his clothes onto a packsaddle.

Harkeld crossed to him. “Be careful.”

Petrus gave a short nod.

“Don’t take any risks. If you think they’ve spotted you, back off.”

Petrus fastened the last strap and turned away.

Harkeld wished he could see inside Petrus’s head, wished he could know what he was thinking. Was the shapeshifter so caught up in grief that his judgment was clouded? Would he take risks without even knowing he was doing it? He strode after Petrus and grabbed his arm, forcing the shapeshifter to halt. “It’ll kill Innis if you die,” he said, in a low voice. “So stop thinking about Justen and start thinking about staying alive. All right, whoreson?”

Petrus turned his head. His eyebrows drew together in a fierce glare.

“You can break my nose when you get back,” Harkeld told him. “Just make sure you
get back
.”

Petrus shook off his hand. Finally he spoke, “I will.”

After Petrus had gone, Harkeld walked to where Innis stood at the grave. “He’s taking this hard. Will he be all right?”

“He and Justen... they were best friends since their first day at the Academy. Twelve years.”

Harkeld took her right hand, held her palm between both of his. She’d done to Justen what Rand had done to Malle: used her healing magic to kill. He wasn’t dreaming, he couldn’t feel her emotions, but he knew she was almost as upset as Petrus. “How did Justen get the curse?”

“He had a raw spot on one heel.” A shudder ran through her. “I felt it when I touched him. The curse. He wasn’t Justen any more. He was something else. Not human.”

“Innis... if Justen had shapeshifted... could he have un-cursed himself? Animals can’t get the curse, can they?”

Innis blinked. Her brow wrinkled. She thought for a moment. “Maybe, if he’d done it before his shadow fully changed. But once the curse took hold...” She shuddered again and shook her head. “He couldn’t think, let alone shift.”

Harkeld released her hand and pulled her into a hug, rested his chin on her hair. He looked at the mound of rocks that was Justen’s grave. “When we were in the desert, whoever was Justen told me Grootens bury their dead at sea.”

“That’s why Petrus took the amulet. To return to his family. They’ll have a ceremony and give it to the sea.”

“Can we be there?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to.”
If we’re still alive
. Harkeld tightened his grip on her. “Keep close watch on me, won’t you? All this snow... If it should happen to me, don’t take any risks. Remember, I could burn you. I could burn you and Petrus just like I did Adel, so
be careful
.”

Innis pulled back. She looked up at him, a frown on her brow, and shook her head. “I don’t think you could burn us. I don’t think Justen could even remember that he could shift.”

“Just don’t take any risks,” Harkeld repeated. “Watch me closely and if it should happen... stay well clear of me until Petrus gets back.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “Please?”