The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) (27 page)

‘It sounds like the end of the world,’ said Nish.

‘It’s a poor land, far from civilisation; Gendrigore has no
cities to speak of, and few resources save wood and grass, neither of which can
be carried out over The Spine.’

‘Father will still have spies and watchers here.’

‘A few, but it’s as good a place as any to plot the return
of the Deliverer.’ He gave Nish a piercing glance.

The healed skin on the back of Nish’s hand prickled, but the
enchantment must have been weaker today, for he felt a wild urge to strike the
zealot in the face. Nish restrained himself; he must give nothing away until
Tulitine said the word. He trusted her, and until then he would be compliance
itself.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I know my duty to the world. Father must
be overthrown and I’m going to do it.’

‘Excellent! But you let me down in the mountain,’ said
Vivimord, rubbing his chest and screwing up his face. ‘Why would you not mate
with Maelys and give me what I wanted? Surely you did not find her
that
unpleasing?’

Nish, resenting the implication about her, said stiffly, ‘It
was Maelys who fled, not I.’

‘Yet I sensed reluctance in you … and when I sent young
women to satisfy you months ago, you rejected them all. The Deliverer must be
seen to consort with women, Cryl-Nish. Nothing else will do,
in public
. Yet, ah, if your private
tastes lie in another direction –’

‘They don’t!’ snapped Nish. ‘I was grieving the loss of my
beloved Irisis.’

‘After ten years?’ Vivimord exclaimed. ‘That is beyond the
call –’

‘Time stood still while I was in Father’s prison. I could not
truly grieve until I had my freedom, but I’m done with that now. I’ve accepted
what I cannot change; it is time to live again.’

‘Splendid! I’m sure the young women of Gendrigore would
fight to besport themselves with the Deliverer. May I send them to your bed?’

Lust flared and, despite everything, Nish could not resist
it. Besides, he reasoned, somewhat conveniently, Tulitine had told him to be
compliant until she gave the word. ‘You may,’ Nish said curtly, ‘as long as
they in no way resemble Irisis.’

The days went by, Nish occupying himself with long
walks through the surrounding forest and along the nearby sea cliffs, savouring
the quiet and solitude. He had regained his strength and health now, save for
his burned hand, which was stiff and still painful. He did not think he would
ever have full use of it, and whenever Vivimord approached, the skin prickled
and he felt that familiar dullness behind his temples which told him that the
zealot was reinforcing his enchantment.

Vivimord was, however, having unexpected difficulty in
recruiting a new Defiance. The people of Gendrigore had welcomed Nish and
Tulitine, but they were suspicious of the brooding zealot and few would listen
to his rhetoric, which elsewhere Nish had seen sway multitudes, or his subtle
threats. They were a peaceful folk who had little interest in the outside
world. They had heard of the Deliverer, of course, but the God-Emperor did not
interfere in their lives and they saw no compelling reason to march against
him.

Vivimord’s manner grew ever more agitated; there were black
circles around his eyes and he was constantly touching the wound on his back,
and the crisped skin of his chest and belly, as if the pain could never be
assuaged.

One night Nish was shocked out of sleep by a furious
bellowing. ‘Let me go! Let me go at once, or I’m going straight to the
Deliverer.’

It was still dark, though it could not be long until dawn.
He rolled onto his back, frowning. Vivimord’s voice had lacked its usual
arrogance; he sounded like a man caught out and trying to bluster his way
through.

‘We caught him blood-handed, Mayor,’ said a male voice Nish
did not know. ‘It were poor Tildy the milk lass this time – throat cut,
just like the other two. Swine was on his knees beside her body, catchin’ her
blood as it were apumpin’ out, and arubbin’ it over his face and chest.
Shoulda’ took his head clean off his shoulders. I shoulda’ done that.’

Nish sat up, feeling sick, and began to dress. A youth had
been killed on their second night here, and a young woman the night after that,
and both had their throats cut. Still under the enchantment, he hadn’t thought
much about the murders, but the accusation made sense. Previously, Vivimord had
only been able to obtain relief from the agony of his ruined skin, seared by
the touch of the tears when he’d saved Jal-Nish at the battle of Gumby Marth
all those years ago, by covering it in tissue leather made from the flawless
skin of a youth or a girl.

Phrune’s blood sacrifice at the cursed flame had restored
Vivimord and given him the smooth skin of a child, but only hours later Maelys
had attacked him with her taphloid, striking him on the cheek and burning that
egg-sized excrescence there. In his agony he’d fallen directly onto Reaper,
which had blistered his chest and belly like crackling on a roast pig.

Blood must be the only relief left to him; fresh blood. And
since Phrune was no longer around to give up his own, Vivimord had been
stalking the innocent and defenceless.

Nish thrust the flap of his tent aside and strode out
barefoot onto the wet grass. Two men held pitch-covered torches high, the wood
flaring and spitting sparks in all directions. Another two, burly woodsmen,
were dragging Vivimord behind them, tied hand and foot to a long pole. Its
lower end cut through the sodden grass, leaving a wavering trail of mud in its
wake. The zealot’s face was stained with red; so was his shirt, and the
excrescence on his cheek was thick with smeared blood, as if he’d anointed
himself there. Townsfolk and farmers ran towards them from all directions,
carrying torches.

‘Deliverer!’ Vivimord spoke in his most commanding tone, and
there was much of the Art in it too. ‘There’s been a dreadful mistake. Order
them to set me free; the very future of the Defiance depends on it.’

Nish’s hand prickled and his forebrain went as dull as if
he’d been drinking all night. He could feel Vivimord’s Art beating at him, and
the familiar shrinking inside. He didn’t have the strength to fight him; and
besides, he now realised, the accusation had to be a terrible mistake.

He was about to say so when Tulitine laid her hand on his
left arm. ‘Don’t listen to his lies, Nish. This is the moment you have been
preparing for all this time; the hour when you must take command.’ Her damp
grey hair straggled about her shoulders, and she looked haggard, though her
gaze was as resolute as ever.

Barquine, the mayor, came running up with his gilded rod of
office. He studied the prisoner, smacking the rod into the palm of a meaty
hand. He was a cheerful, stocky, moustachioed man who had made Nish welcome
from the beginning, but he did not look cheerful now.

The pressure in Nish’s mind eased and he knew that Tulitine
was right. Now was the hour, and if he could just resist Vivimord’s
enchantments, the zealot was finished. I can resist him, Nish told himself.
I must and I will
.

‘Deliverer,’ Vivimord said commandingly, ‘order these simple
fools to let me go. They’ve got the wrong man.’

He must have employed more Art this time, for again Nish
began to disbelieve the charges, and even Barquine seemed to be wavering. The
torchbearers formed a circle around the prisoner on his pole, and the townsfolk
a larger circle around that, frowning and muttering among themselves.

‘What is this?’ Barquine held his rod of office across his
chest like a shield, and his knuckles were white. ‘Why have you trussed up the
Deliverer’s most trusted advisor?’

‘We found –’ began the taller of the woodsmen.

‘You cannot touch me!’ hissed Vivimord. ‘I am the
Deliverer’s man and he is a guest in your country; therefore the laws of
Gendrigore do not apply to me. Order them to release me, Cryl-Nish.’

It was hard to resist his entreaty; Nish felt like a sapling
bending before the gale of Vivimord’s Art, and if he tried to fight it he would
be torn apart. But Nish met Tulitine’s eye and remembered what she’d said about
the core of steel within him; rusty on the outside but still strong at the
centre. He imagined it running up his backbone, stiffening it, and spoke
deliberately, precisely.

‘The laws apply to you if I say they do.’ Nish folded his
arms across his chest and prayed for the strength to defy his enemy.

Vivimord reeled on his pole; the bloody excrescence on his
cheek swelled. ‘Deliverer!’ he said warningly.

Tulitine touched Nish’s right shoulder; the pressure eased.
‘And I say they do!’ Nish burst out while he still had the strength to speak.
‘Mayor Barquine, I place Vivimord’s fate in Gendrigore’s hands.’

Barquine inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘What are the
facts of the matter?’ he asked the men holding the pole.

‘Since the second slayin’, four nights ago, we took it upon
ourselves to keep watch,’ said the shorter of the original two torchbearers, a
burly man clad in nothing but knee-length canvas pants. He had the muscles of a
blacksmith or a bull wrestler, and his chest was covered in black hair with
small charred and frizzed patches burnt through it.

Definitely a blacksmith, Nish thought.

‘We heard a cry, down behind the old dairy,’ the smith went
on, ‘and caught the devil at it. He had poor Tildy down, her throat cut from
ear to ear, and as the innocent blood pumped from her he was arubbin’ it over
his face and belly, and acryin’ out like a man doin’ the business with a woman,
if you take my meaning.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Vivimord roared. He must have realised that
he was losing command of them, for he attempted to draw himself upright on the
slanted pole and said, with most of his old authority intact, ‘It was
I
who found that man at it, on my
morning constitutional.’ He pointed a bloodstained finger at the smith. ‘He
took the girl by force, then killed her to avoid being found out. It is he who
must be put to trial, not I.’

This time there was such Art in his voice that Nish was
swayed, and so were all the townsfolk. He could see their faces hardening,
their eyes swinging from Vivimord to the burly blacksmith. Even Nish, who knew
that most of Vivimord’s power came from his Art of rhetoric, could not bring
himself to disbelieve.

He was about to order Vivimord released when Tulitine said
quietly, ‘Vivimord is covered in blood, yet the blacksmith hasn’t a trace on
him. How could he cut the girl’s throat without getting blood all over him?’

‘He did it from behind,’ said Vivimord. ‘After he’d had his
lustful way with her.’

‘There would still be blood on his knife hand.’

‘Not if he were skilled at killing. Not if he were quick.’

‘You know a lot about the business of killing.’ Tulitine’s
voice was so low that everyone had to strain to hear, but it was all the more
effective for that.

‘I fought at the God-Emperor’s right hand during the war
against the lyrinx.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd.

‘And perhaps you serve him still,’ Tulitine said silkily.
‘Blacksmith, take us down to the body.’

The smith let go of the pole, which was taken by another
man, and led them silently across the sodden grass to the stream which partly
encircled the town, and thence along it to a roofless stable set among tall
trees, its wooden slab walls sagging with age and rot. Within a set of cow
bails, on the manure-covered earth, lay the sad remains of Tildy the milking
girl. Beside her body was an overturned stool; a dangling rope was still tied
to the bails, where the beast she had been milking at the time of her death had
broken away.

‘Keep back.’ Tulitine bent to inspect the body, the patterns
of blood, and the footmarks on the ground. ‘The girl has not been taken, by
force or otherwise. Her killer came up behind her and cut her throat while she
was milking. And you’re the only man with blood on him, Vivimord.’

‘The killer must have washed himself in the stream,’ said
Vivimord, straining to use his Art, but it no longer seemed to be working.

‘There are no marks down the bank. No one has washed
themselves here today.’

‘Further along, then. He could have bathed anywhere.’

‘There hasn’t been time; the body is still warm. And the cry
was heard, when?’ Tulitine wasn’t looking at the blacksmith, but at the taller
man holding the pole.

‘Not half an hour ago,’ he replied. He was dark-featured and
prematurely balding. ‘And we found the knife he used to kill poor little
Tildy.’ He held out a wavy-bladed weapon made from black metal. It was smeared
with damp blood.

‘The knife is his,’ said a voice from the crowd. ‘Vivimord
always wore it on his right hip as he strutted about our town like an arrogant
rooster, knocking honest, hard-working people out of his path.’

‘Someone stole it last night,’ Vivimord said weakly. The
power of his voice was diminishing with every new piece of evidence, as if he
was losing confidence in his Art. Tulitine now stood tall, her old eyes
blazing, fighting him all the way.

‘There are bloody finger marks on the hilt,’ said the
balding man. ‘And look at his hands – they’re huge. I’ll bet you can
match the finger marks to him.’

Two men forcibly folded the fingers of Vivimord’s right hand
around the hilt, and everyone crowded around. His fingers fitted the blood
marks perfectly.

‘It proves nothing,’ said Vivimord. ‘Lots of men in the town
have big hands.’

‘Not like yours!’ said the balding man. ‘We’ve got worker’s
hands. Your fingers are creepy, like a long-legged spider.’

‘And there’s blood under his nails,’ said Tulitine. ‘The
girl’s blood.’

‘I bent over her,’ said Vivimord, ‘trying to save her life.’

‘Any man who saw as much death in the war as you did would
have known that Tildy’s wound was fatal. Draw up his shirt, lads.’