The Blood Curse (35 page)

The princess shook her head.

“We need to get him to drink,” Bennick said. “I’ll brew some feverwort. Jaumé, get a fire going.”

J
AUMÉ GATHERED WOOD
and made a rough fire pit while Bennick and the rest of the Brothers tended to the horses. When the fire was burning, he put a billy of water on to boil. Bennick fetched a leather pouch from one of the packsaddles. Inside it, were lots of smaller pouches. Bennick found the one he wanted. “Not much left.” He held it out for Jaumé to sniff. “Feverwort. You know what this is?”

Jaumé nodded. “Mam used it. She said the leaves make you well, and the roots make you sick.”

“She was right.” Bennick emptied the pouch of dried leaves into the billy.

“The alderman’s son ate some feverwort root once,” Jaumé said. “On a dare. He threw up for a whole day and night.”

Bennick grunted. “Not surprised. It’s a strong emetic.”

“Em... Emmytic?”

Bennick pulled the boiling billy off the fire. “Emetic. Something that makes you throw up.”

The feverwort leaves steeped while the water cooled. When it was only lukewarm, Bennick picked out the leaves. “Right, let’s get him to drink. Fetch a mug, will you, lad?”

Bennick propped the soldier up slightly, his arm under the man’s shoulders, and trickled feverwort into his mouth. The soldier’s dark face was flushed with fever, stained with blood. He choked once, coughed, came close to rousing.

“Karel?” the princess said, leaning close to him. “Karel? Can you hear me?”

For a moment it seemed that he did. His head turned towards her, his eyelids flickered—and then he sank into unconsciousness again.

Bennick got almost a mug of feverwort into him. “Better than nothing,” he said. “We’ll try again later.” He poured the rest of the billy into a waterskin.

“Thank you,” the princess said. She hadn’t stopped holding the soldier’s hand. Jaumé wondered if she was afraid he’d die if she let go.

Bennick jumped lightly down from the wagon.

“Jaumé?” the princess said.

Jaumé paused on the edge of the wagon and looked back at her.

“May I have some warm water? I’d like to wash the blood off him properly.”

Jaumé waited until he had Bennick’s nod, then hastened to heat more water. He found some of the bandages that Bennick hadn’t used and took them and the water to the princess. “To clean him with,” he said, offering the cloths.

The princess released the soldier’s hand and took the billy and the bandages. “Thank you, Jaumé.”

The princess was dressed like a man and had short, scruffy hair and a bruised face, but her smile made him feel warm inside.

T
HEY ATE SMOKED
sausages, tough and chewy, with whole peppercorns in them and coarse chunks of fat. After the meal, Vught unrolled a map and scowled at it. “The Brother in Andeol was going to have water barrels and a wagon for us. But we’re not going to make it. Not if the curse is as close as that Rider said.”

“We can get barrels,” Bennick said, “at the next village we pass. Empty ’em out, fill ’em with water.”

Vught grunted, and rolled the map up again. He looked at Jaumé. “You’ve been in cursed land before, boy. What’s it like?”

Jaumé shivered. “Lots of blood.”

Vught made an impatient gesture—
Tell me more
.

Jaumé glanced at Bennick, and saw his encouraging nod. He took a deep breath. “My Da killed my Mam and my sister,” he said, in a rush. “And then he came after me.” The smell of blood was in his nose—Mam’s blood. “I ran to the village, but the curse was there, too, so I hid. They burned it, the village. I heard people screaming and laughing. And at night, I ran away.”

“Laughing?” Vught’s mouth turned down in a frown.

Jaumé shivered again. “Not good laughing. Like... like an animal would laugh.”

“Huh.” Vught shrugged with his face, with his shoulders. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Jaumé looked away. He couldn’t smell the sausages any more, or the woodsmoke; all he could smell was blood. He remembered the sounds Da had made as he chased him: thudding feet, hoarse grunts of breath. His ribcage seemed to squeeze around his lungs.

Bennick stood. “Let’s get some more feverwort down his throat. Come on, lad.”

Jaumé scrambled to his feet.

Bennick rested one hand on the top of Jaumé’s head for a moment. The panic retreated. Jaumé gulped a big breath. As long as he was with Bennick, he was safe.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

T
HEY HALTED WHEN
the sky shaded into another smoky orange dusk. Harkeld dismounted stiffly. He unsaddled his mount, then turned to the packhorses. He felt numb inside.

First Bode, then Malle, and now Gretel.

“Don’t put up tents tonight.” Rand’s voice sounded too loud in the silence. “There’s enough space for us all to sleep in the wagon.”

Now that Gretel’s dead
.

Harkeld helped unsaddle the horses. Far too many horses for seven people. He carried bedrolls to the wagon, and two armfuls of blankets, and looked around—Adel and Serril hobbling the last of the horses, Innis and Justen circling overhead, Rand going through the packsaddles, Petrus gathering gnarled thorn branches in a pile.

He crossed to Petrus and crouched, lit the fire with a flick of his fingers. “How are you?”

Petrus glanced at him, shrugged. “Fine.”

No, you’re not
. But if Petrus needed to talk with someone, he’d talk to Innis.

Petrus set up the iron tripod. He hung the stewpot over the flames and half-filled it with water from his waterskin. Rand came over, carrying several bundles. He tossed Petrus one. “Goat’s meat.”

Harkeld watched Rand open the other bundles, sorting out herbs and dried yellow tubers. Deep lines of strain were carved into the healer’s face. He seemed to have aged a decade since Hansgrohe.

Rand reached for a knife and started cutting the tubers into chunks.

“Rand?” He waited for the healer to look at him. “Gretel was going to help me try to burn stone tonight. I’d still like to do it.”

Rand put down the knife he was using. “Stone? It’s risky. You could harm yourself.”

“My magic won’t burn me,” Harkeld said.

“Not on purpose, no. But an accident—”

“Sir... it might be a good idea for him to try,” Petrus said.

Rand glanced at him, frowning.

“In Ankeny, the anchor stone wouldn’t let him go. It took all the skin off his palm.”

Harkeld had a flash of memory: his palm flayed raw.

“I’d forgotten that. I was more focused on the arrow.” Rand’s frown deepened. “What happened at the first stone, Flin?”

“Nothing. It just sucked up my blood. It was the second one that wouldn’t let me go. It was... I don’t know... stronger.”

“What if the third stone’s even stronger?” Petrus said. He emptied the dried goat’s meat into the stewpot. “What if he can’t get his hand off?”

“The stone will disintegrate,” Rand said. “Like the others.”

And what happens to my hand, then? Does it disintegrate too?

Rand must have been thinking the same thing. He gave a nod. “All right, you may try. But I want to be with you when you do.” He gave the knife to Petrus and climbed to his feet. “Where do you want to do it?”

“That stone wall over there.”

They crossed the paddock together, the icy wind whipping their cloaks around them, and halted at the dry-stone wall. Harkeld picked up a pale gray stone the size of a plum and turned it over in his hand. It seemed impossible that he could burn it, impossible that anyone could. And yet his grandfather had been able to.

Linus.
Who gave up his life as a Sentinel so that I could be born
.

Harkeld put the plum-sized stone on the top of the wall and stepped several paces back. He felt nervous, uncertain. “I don’t know how to do this,” he told Rand.

“Do whatever seems most natural.”

Natural? Could burning stone be natural?

It had been, for Linus.

Harkeld raised his right hand and called up his magic, let it rise in him, fierce and hot.
Burn
.

There was a sharp crack of sound and a bright flash of fire. The plum-shaped stone jumped in the air and tumbled to the ground. Harkeld lowered his hand. He walked across to the stone. It was black, hissing in the cold air. He stepped on it, hoping it would crumble like charcoal beneath his boot, but it was still rock-hard. He remembered what Gretel had said: it was harder to burn stone than metal.

“Well?” Rand asked.

Harkeld shook his head. “Didn’t work.” He chose another stone, balanced it on top of the wall, stepped back again. He shook out his right hand, flexed his fingers, and stared at the new stone, determined to burn it. Not for himself, but for Linus. For Gretel.

He summoned his magic again, let it build again. Hot. White-hot. Hotter than white-hot. Fire crackled and sizzled in his blood. He gritted his teeth and let the heat and the pressure build even higher. When it was almost too much to bear, when he felt as if he was about to explode, he released his magic.
Burn
.

There was a loud
whoomp
and a blinding burst of fire. Tiny shards of something sharp stung Harkeld’s face.

He turned to Rand, blinking, squinting to see past the imprint of flame on his vision. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

Harkeld crossed to the wall. There was a black scorch mark where the stone had been, and tiny black flecks that looked like glass. He touched the wall, felt the heat there. Some of the flecks stuck to his fingers. He rubbed them between thumb and forefinger. Gritty. Sharp.

Smithereens. He’d burned the stone to smithereens.

He turned to face Rand. “If I do that to the anchor stone...”

“If your hand is on the anchor stone and you do that, you’ll blow your arm off.”

Harkeld grimaced. He turned his hand palm-up, looked at it.
Better to lose the skin again
.

Rand walked across to him, his boots crunching in the dried wisps of grass. “And it’s not just the risk to you that worries me. Ivek bound his curse to the anchor stone. Your blood is meant to destroy it, but if you do
that
to the stone...”

“You think the curse might not end?”

“There’ve been fire mages strong enough to burn the anchor stones, but they’ve never dared risk it. The only way of being absolutely certain of destroying the stones
and
the curse is to do it the way Ivek intended.”

Harkeld stared down at his palm. He remembered how the first anchor stone had greedily swallowed his blood, how the second one had held on to his skin. What was going to happen at the third anchor stone?
Will it take my whole hand?
He’d said it as a joke, back in Ankeny, with his hand dripping blood, but it wasn’t a joke.

“If you could burn stone with control,” Rand said. “If you could burn
only
enough of the anchor stone to free yourself... I would consider allowing you to do it.”

“If I practice—”

“How much practice do you think you’ll need?”

Harkeld looked at the scorch mark, at the tiny shards of glass. A crude explosion. Fire wielded with no precision and very little control. He met the healer’s eyes. “A lot. And I think... I need a fire mage to instruct me. Someone who knows how it should be done.”

“I agree,” Rand said. “Fire magic is a dangerous discipline. You could have a serious accident. Something Innis and I can’t heal. I’m sorry, Flin.”

Harkeld nodded.

They walked back across the paddock. Harkeld looked at the mountains. They were much closer now, looming against the sky. The third anchor stone nestled somewhere in those snowy peaks.
What will it do to me?

Rand halted. “I don’t know a lot about fire magic, but... what if you don’t throw your magic? What if you try to burn stone by contact?”

Harkeld halted, too. “Contact?”

“Could you
melt
your hand free?”

Harkeld stared at the healer, thinking. “Maybe. I learned to burn wood by touching it.”

“Want to try?”

He nodded.

They went back to the wall. The sky was almost dark, streaked with fiery orange streamers of cloud.

Harkeld laid his hand on a large block of stone. He blew out a breath and called up his magic again, let it hum warmly beneath his skin. How to do this?

He wished Cora was here. Or Gretel. Or even Bode. He closed his eyes. Melt stone. How?

He let the heat build in his hand, but didn’t hold it there, let it flow out through his palm. Hotter. Even hotter. Intensely hot. Magic crackled and smoked in his blood, spilling out into the stone.

“I think you’ve done it.”

Harkeld opened his eyes. Only one cloud glowed orange now, catching the last of the daylight.

He looked down at his hand. Steam wisped around his fingers. Or perhaps it was smoke? He heard a faint hissing sound.

Harkeld snuffed his fire magic. He lifted his hand. A handprint was burned into the stone—four fingers, thumb, palm. The print shimmered slightly, catching the light, seeming to move.

“Molten,” Rand said.

Without his magic to heat it, the stone cooled swiftly, losing its sheen. It dulled as it hardened. Tiny cracks snaked across its surface.