The Blood Curse (50 page)

Karel released her hand. “I should have tried to kill Vught last night. And Bennick.”

“Karel, you can’t even
stand up
by yourself.”

“No.” He frowned. “Could you bring those herbs here? Maybe I can recognize bone-knit from the smell.”

Britta brought the herbs, and Karel sniffed them all. “I don’t think any of these is bone-knit.”

She took the herbs back, and when she returned, Karel said, “Britta, I need to pee.”

Britta fetched a chamberpot and put it on a stool beside the bed, and brought Karel his stave, but he wouldn’t accept any help after that. She ran upstairs and checked the road—still empty—and ran down again.

Karel was back under the furs. His face was as gray as the wolf pelts and he was shaking. Britta emptied the chamberpot and gave him willowbark tea to drink and watched him fall asleep, then she picked the sword belt up from the floor, buckled it around her hips, and went to check the road again.

Still empty.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

A
T THE END
of the road, Bennick took out Vught’s map and studied it. “Up that valley on the left. I think we’re only a couple of miles from the stone.” He urged his horse forward, into the foot-deep snow.

Jaumé trailed after him. There was a tight, anxious lump in his chest.

The valley was narrow and bare of trees. In summer, it would be a meadow; now, it was smooth and white and empty. Trees with black trunks clung to the steep hills on either side. They looked like firs, but had no needles.

Jaumé hoped there were witches in the hills and that they could see him and Bennick. He peered at the hillsides, searching for movement, for people, but saw nothing.
Hurry!
he told the prince urgently.
Or we’ll get there before you.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE

H
ARKELD CLIMBED THE
ridge on horseback for several hours, beneath a blue sky, then the track veered east, zigzagging its way steeply down into the valley on the other side. He dismounted and walked, the horses strung out behind him. The snow was melting into slush. He moved slowly, placed his feet cautiously.

The sun tracked across the sky. Harkeld found himself glancing up often, looking for Petrus.

Had something happened? Had the Fithians seen him? Killed him?

Foreboding grew inside him. He found himself praying to the All-Mother:
Let Petrus come back. Let him be all right
. His relief, when he looked up and saw a second hawk circling with Innis, was intense. He halted, hurried back to the packhorses, grabbed a blanket and spread it on the ground. “Petrus!”

Both hawks glided down.

Harkeld rummaged for cloaks for them both, and a waterskin, and dried goat’s meat. Questions bubbled inside him. He waited impatiently until Petrus had drunk. “Well? Did you find them?”

Petrus chewed on some goat’s meat and nodded.

Harkeld almost reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “And? How many are there?”

Petrus chewed some more and swallowed. “One.”

“
One
?”

Petrus nodded. “There’s a body where they camped last night. A Fithian. The wagon’s been left behind. There’s just one assassin headed this way. Got his weapons with him, and the boy. They’ll reach the anchor stone in the next hour or so.”

“One,” Harkeld said again. “Are you certain? Serril said he saw—”

“I followed the road back. Found the rest of ‘em. Dead. And a bunch of... I don’t know what they were. Outlaws. Bandits.”

“From that camp Serril found in the hills?” Innis said.

“I reckon so. They had those manes he was talking about, looked pretty primitive. There were four dead Fithians there, and one further on, makes five. Plus the one still alive, makes six.” Petrus reached for the waterskin. “I had a good look around—a really good look—and I swear there’s no one alive out here but us, and that one Fithian and the boy. The assassin’s an archer, by the way. Got a big bow.”

Harkeld touched his chest, rubbed the ridge of scar tissue over his heart. “Only one Fithian. That’s... better news than I expected.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

T
HE VALLEY SWUNG
to the right and ended in a large open space that was roughly circular. Hills rose up on three sides. Jaumé craned his neck. He felt as if he was in a massive arena.

A large, stubby thumb of rock stuck up out of the snow. Bennick dismounted and brushed some snow off. Jaumé saw grainy red stone speckled with white and yellow.

“This’ll be it.” Bennick slapped the rock and grinned.

The tight, anxious lump in Jaumé’s chest grew bigger. He felt slightly sick.

B
ENNICK SURVEYED THE
open space, and headed for the closest trees. Jaumé followed miserably. “Let’s get set up,” Bennick said. He glanced at the sky. “Hopefully it’ll snow again soon. Hide our tracks.”

They unloaded the packsaddles and then Bennick led the horses far into the forest. He dumped off the saddles and hobbled the horses. “What’ll they eat?” Jaumé asked.

“Larch needles, twigs, snow. They’ll be all right for a day or so. Long as no wolves come.”

“Wolves?”

Bennick shrugged. “This is wolf country.”

Jaumé hugged his pony tightly. “Be careful,” he told her.

The pony didn’t seem concerned. Jaumé glanced back as they left. She was investigating a tree. He heard a twig crunch between her teeth.

B
ENNICK HAD BROUGHT
a tent. “Stand well back,” he said, and then, “Even further, lad.” He carefully dug out a patch of snow, working slowly, keeping his nose and mouth covered. Jaumé watched him pitch the tent and shovel the snow back again. When Bennick had finished, only the top of the tent showed. “All-Mother willing, it’ll snow some more,” Bennick said.

They put their supplies in the tent—food, waterskins, sleeping mats and blankets—and then Bennick prowled the edge of the trees, looking for the perfect shot. “Here,” he said, finally. “This is the spot. Can’t miss from here.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

P
ETRUS WALKED THE
last two hours of daylight. Fifty yards ahead, Prince Harkeld moved through the trees, leading five horses. The morning’s icy crispness had given way to a raw dampness. The snow was melting, the orange of larch needles bright on the ground. Fog began to gather between the tree trunks.

At dusk, they halted. He and the prince put up the tent. Wet larch needles squelched beneath their boots.

“If I light a fire, you reckon that Fithian’ll see it?”

Petrus sat back on his heels. “If we dig a pit, keep it small...”

The prince dug, frowning, and stopped with his boot resting on the shovel blade. “Why does the assassin have a boy with him?”

“Recruit,” Petrus said. “Fithians always have an eye out for a likely lad. Situations like this—plagues, wars, floods—any time you’ve got children separated from their families, children orphaned... Fithians pick up a lot of recruits.”

T
HEY SAT BY
the fire and ate leathery strips of dried goat’s meat. Petrus hunted through the packsaddles and found a pouch of nuts. “Flin.” He tossed the pouch over.

The prince took a handful of nuts and tossed the pouch back. “There’s no reason to call me Flin any more, is there?”

Petrus shrugged. He chewed on a nut. “Can’t see any harm in calling you Prince Har—”

“No.” The prince winced. “Not prince, or sire, or highness. Just Harkeld.”

Petrus shrugged again. “If that’s what you want.”

They ate the nuts in silence. “Look,” the prince said, when he’d finished. “About what I said this morning—”

“You were right.” Petrus veered away from memory of Justen. Now wasn’t the time to mourn him; he needed to concentrate on keeping Innis and Harkeld alive.

The prince met his eyes. After a moment, he nodded.

“I reckon we’ll be at the anchor stone by noon.” Petrus remembered the second anchor stone, remembered the prince’s flayed palm. “You want to practice burning stone tonight?”

Harkeld pulled a face; he was remembering too. “Yes.”

P
ETRUS SWAPPED WITH
Innis and flapped up into the sky as an owl. He watched Innis eat, watched the prince melt his handprint into half a dozen rocks, watched them sit together at the fire. The way they looked at each other—Innis, in shy glances, Harkeld, serious and searching—told him they weren’t discussing the anchor stone. Their conversation was more personal than that. Personal, and important.

He wasn’t stupid; he could guess what they were talking about: the future, their relationship.

Petrus veered away from the campsite, climbed above treetops, swung out over the valley. He wanted to hate the prince, wanted to
want
the prince to die tomorrow—but he couldn’t. He liked the man.

Liked Harkeld. Loved Innis.

Rut it. Rut it.
Rut it
.

W
HEN
P
ETRUS RETURNED
to the campfire, Innis and Harkeld were holding hands.

Bitterness caught him, and took him high above the treetops again, and in a fierce swoop down the ridge, and out in a wide arc over the valley. By the time he’d climbed back up to the campsite, the bitterness had ebbed to resignation and Innis and the prince were preparing for bed.

They couldn’t have sex until Innis had completed her training. That gave Petrus sour satisfaction.

Innis looked up and waved goodnight—and he felt ashamed of himself. He did wish them happiness together, he
did
, it was just...

Rut it.