The Blood Curse (21 page)

Harkeld turned in his saddle, watching the disappearing figure. “You think he’s Fithian?”

Rand shrugged. “Don’t know what to think. Someone, somewhere, knows we’re coming.”

“Perhaps not,” Malle said. “Perhaps that message didn’t get through. Or if it did, whoever received it is dead.”

Harkeld watched Innis flap into the sky. Anxiety eddied in his belly. He hoped she’d keep her distance from the man.

“Or perhaps they’re waiting for us somewhere ahead,” Justen said.

Rand grimaced. “That, I can believe.”

So could Harkeld. He needed to continue his lessons, needed to learn how to throw fire with his left hand. Which fire mage should he ask? Middle-aged Gretel? Blunt-spoken Bode? Or Signy, the youngest of the fire mages?

He studied Gretel and Signy, riding ahead of him. Gretel, fair-haired and stocky, Signy, dark and angular. Gretel’s hair was as short as Katlen’s had been, but she was quiet, not bossy. She reminded him of Cora. Calm. Even-tempered.

Signy had been close to Thayer. Harkeld remembered seeing them together on the ship, sitting side by side, shoulders touching, heads close together, talking, laughing. Had they been lovers? He thought they might have been. Signy hadn’t spoken to him since Hansgrohe.
Does she blame me for Thayer’s death?
If she did, she was right.

So, not Signy. Either Gretel or Bode, then.

They rounded a bend and saw more refugees—two men, grizzled and gray-bearded. One was limping heavily, leaning on a stick.

Harkeld examined them as they approached and felt pity. Neither of the men was hale. The one who limped had a shriveled socket where his right eye should have been, the other man had an arm that ended in a stump.
They won’t make it
.

The limping man stopped and leaned on his stick. He swayed with each breath, looking ready to collapse.

Harkeld halted. “Would you like some water, father?”

A horse and rider pressed close on his left. Nellis. She held out a waterskin. “Here.”

“Thank ye kindly,” the old man said. He took a long swig from the waterskin, wiped the mouthpiece with grave dignity, and held it out to his companion. “Drink, Udo.”

The one-handed man drank, maneuvering the waterskin with surprising deftness. “All-Mother bless you.” He gave the waterskin back to Nellis.

“And may she bless you, too,” she replied.

“She already has,” the limping man said. His single eye wasn’t faded and rheumy, but bright and fierce. He reached under his cloak in a swift, fluid movement and flicked something at Harkeld.

Harkeld reacted without conscious thought. Fire magic detonated in front of his face, so close the heat scorched him. His horse reared. He grabbed for the reins—missed—tumbled from his saddle and hit the ground hard. All around him was a chaos of brightness and moving shadows, of shouts that sounded like the chirping of birds. He was as helpless as a newborn kitten, unable to see, unable to hear. Something struck him in the head. A horse’s hoof. He curled himself up as small as he could.

Gradually the chaos became less confusing. Harkeld uncurled slightly. The imprint of flames still blocked his vision, but he knew someone stood over him, a shadow against the brightness. Friend or foe? He groped for his sword. A hand grasped his shoulder. Someone spoke words he couldn’t make out.

“I can’t see,” Harkeld said, wiping moisture from his stinging eyes, trying not to panic. “I can’t hear.”

Whoever it was released his shoulder, crouched, and cupped his face in their hands. He felt calloused fingers against his cheeks, smelled someone’s sweat. Rand. He squinted, trying to see the healer.

“Keep your eyes closed.” Those words, he heard faintly.

Harkeld obeyed.

Slowly, the ringing in his ears faded. Sounds began to come clear: people talking in low voices; the crunch of boots on dirt; a horse’s nicker.

The gritty stinging of his eyes eased.

“Open your eyes,” Rand said.

Harkeld cautiously obeyed. His vision was blurry, still marked by the imprint of flames, tears still leaked down his cheeks, but he could see Rand.

“Better?”

“A lot better.” Relief unfurled in his chest.
I’m not blind
. He wiped his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Rand’s smile was lopsided. “Next time you burn something that close to you, shut your eyes.”

“Was it a throwing star?”

“It was.” Rand stood, held out a hand, pulled Harkeld to his feet.

“Those men were Fithians? But... they were
old
.” He looked for the bodies, but found only bloodstains and scorch marks on the ground. A faint smell of roasted pork lingered in the air. “Is everyone all right?”

“Three dead.”

“What?” Harkeld swung to face Rand, lurched, almost lost his balance.

“Nellis, Hedín, and Signy.”

Harkeld stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to speak, almost unable to breathe. “But... there were only two of them and they were
old
!”

“One-eye had fifty-six kills,” someone said behind him.

Harkeld turned unsteadily and almost lost his balance again.

The speaker was Justen. The shapeshifter took Harkeld’s arm, steadied him. “Is Flin all right?” he asked Rand.

“Concussion,” Rand said. “Perforated eardrum. Flash burn. He’ll be fine with a bit more healing.”

“Fifty-six kills?” Harkeld said, wiping his eyes again.

Justen nodded. “Serril says it’s the most he’s ever seen.”

“What about the other one?”

Justen grimaced. “Too badly burned.”

“Nellis? Signy? Hedín? Where are they?” Harkeld headed for the wagon, listing as he walked. Justen kept grip of his arm.

Nellis and Hedín and Signy lay side by side on the floorboards of the wagon.

“Throwing stars, all of them.” Justen released Harkeld’s arm. “At least Hedín had time to change into himself before he bled out.”

Harkeld stared at the three bodies. The tears in his eyes were no longer solely due to the stinging. “But... Nellis gave them
water
.”

“That’s Fithians for you,” Rand said, flatly.

“Is everyone else all right?” He turned too fast, almost fell, grabbed hold of the tailboard. He could see Adel and Gretel calming the horses, and there were Malle and Bode, and the black hawk was Serril... “Where’s Innis? Where’s Petrus?”

“Fine,” Justen said. “You’re the only one injured. That throwing star... It just
exploded
in your face. I thought you were dead.”

No. Not dead. But Nellis and Hedín and Signy were. Harkeld turned back to the wagon, and looked at their bodies. A bloodstained ivory disc was visible at Signy’s throat. “She was from Groot,” he said. “Like you.” His voice broke on the last word and to his horror he began to cry.

“It’s the concussion,” Rand said. “Justen, help him into the wagon. Bode! Let’s get moving.”

“Come on, Flin,” Justen said gently. “Up with you.” He put an arm around Harkeld, steadied him as he clambered into the wagon.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

H
ARKELD WOKE SLOWLY.
He lay on wooden floorboards that rattled and jolted beneath him. The wagon. He knew without opening his eyes that it was Innis who now healed him, not Rand. Her magic felt different.

The hands cupped over his ears lifted. “How do you feel?”

“A lot better.” Harkeld opened his eyes and stared up at her. Gray eyes, black curls, freckles on her nose. A mage. A shapeshifter. Something he’d been taught to fear his whole life. Monstrosity. Abomination. Creature unhuman.
Do I love you?

“You look a bit sunburned,” Innis said. “But that’ll pass in a day or two.”

Harkeld pushed up on one elbow and rubbed his face. The wagon swayed and lurched around a corner.

“How’s your vision?”

“Fine,” he said. “Fine.” How could he be certain whether he loved Innis or not? He didn’t
know
her.

“And your eyebrows and eyelashes are only a little singed.”

The only good witch is a dead one
. The tenet he’d grown up believing, something he’d known with his whole being to be true. So, how had Innis become so important to him?

“Good,” Harkeld said. “Um... look, Innis... we need to talk.”

She looked down at her lap. “I know.”

“Not, you know... not...” Not declarations of love, or anything. “It’s just...” Just what? “I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know how old you are.”

She glanced at him, met his eyes.

“I thought I knew Justen, but he wasn’t real. He wasn’t anyone. He was just a mix of you all.
We
’ve never talked. You and me. Face to face.”

“We talked in the dreams.”

“
I
talked, most of the time. And the thing is, Innis, they’re just
dreams
. They’re no more real than Justen was. They’re make-believe. We
can’t
know what each other feels. That’s impossible! No one can do that.”

“I can. When I heal.”

He stared at her. “Healers feel
that
? Petrus, and Rand—”

Innis shook her head. “Most healers don’t. Only ones as strong as me.”

He sat back, unsettled. “I didn’t know that.”

Innis lifted her shoulders in a faint, almost apologetic, shrug, and looked down at her lap again. She plucked at an unraveling thread on the hem of her cloak, wound it around one fingertip.

Harkeld examined her face. Frustration surged in his chest. How had he fallen in love with someone he didn’t
know
? “I know nothing about you! I don’t know who you
are
.”

Her gaze jerked to his. For a long moment they stared at each other, and then Innis unwound the thread from her finger. “What would you like to know?”

Everything. “Well for a start, how old you are.”

“Twenty. Two weeks ago.”

“While we were sailing from Ankeny?”

Innis nodded.

He remembered how angry he’d been during the voyage. And he remembered Thayer and Signy sitting on deck, heads bent together, shoulders touching, talking. He didn’t remember Innis celebrating a birthday.

Harkeld glanced at the front of the wagon, where Signy lay dead. Someone had covered her with a blanket.

He looked back at Innis. “How did your parents die?”

“Ah...” She looked down at her lap, picked up the hem of her cloak, turned it over. “My mother was a shapeshifter. She was killed hunting down a fire mage who’d gone rogue.”

“Rogue?”

“Some mages decide the Primary Laws don’t apply to them. They misuse their magic, harm people.” Innis began pleating the cloak hem, lining the folds up neatly. “Father was a healer. He... There was a ship came into harbor, but the captain wouldn’t dock, refused to let the passengers off. Said he had an outbreak of cow pox onboard and they’d wait at anchor until it passed.”

“Your father went out to help,” Harkeld guessed.

She glanced up at him. “Not to cure the pox. Healers can’t cure plagues. We can heal flesh and bones, we can alleviate some of the physical symptoms of diseases, but the causes...” She shook her head. “If it’s in the blood, if it’s all through the body, there’s not a lot we can do.”

“Like that soldier who was stung by a scorpion.”

She nodded. “I could ease his cramps, but I couldn’t get rid of the poison. It had to work its way out of his system.”

“Dareus said...” Harkeld narrowed his eyes, trying to remember. “He said it would take many mages many days to remove a poison from the bloodstream.”

Innis nodded again.

“So... if your father didn’t go out to the ship, what happened?”

“Oh, he went out. One of the passengers was in labor. And father had had cow pox. He thought there was no risk.” She folded a few more inches of hem, pinched the folds together.

“It wasn’t cow pox?”

She shook her head.

“What was it?”

“Have you heard of a kingdom called Torborgen?”

“No.”

“It’s small, Torborgen. Way out in the ocean, almost off the edge of the map.”

He waited, wondering what Torborgen had to do with ships and her father’s death.

“Have you heard of the black pox?”

“Yes.” He pulled a face. “Was it...?”

Innis nodded.

“I heard... four out of five people died.”

Innis nodded again.

“I’m sorry.”

Innis lifted one shoulder in a shrug and went back to folding the hem of her cloak. “They figured out later that three ships left Torborgen with the black pox aboard. Two never made landfall. Everyone perished at sea. The third one made it to Lirac.

“If the captain hadn’t stayed out at anchor, if he’d let his passengers disembark... Lirac would have been infected, and if Lirac had been infected, most of the Allied Kingdoms would have been, too. Four out of five people. That’s a lot of people. He saved thousands of lives.”

But not your father’s life
. “Did the captain survive?”

She shook her head, pleated more of the hem.

Harkeld studied her face. There was a tiny furrow between her eyebrows. Her mouth was tight. Was she remembering what it felt like to be twelve years old and orphaned? “You were sent to Rosny?”

“Yes. To the Academy.” The furrow didn’t disappear.