The Blood Curse (45 page)

He almost scrambled down from the pony, but a glance from Vught stopped him. He stayed where he was, dread squeezing his chest.

And then he noticed that the only tracks in the snow were Bennick’s. Had Vught noticed that?

Of course he had. Vught noticed everything. His eyes were as sharp as knives.

Bennick emerged from the door. His sword was sheathed. “Been burned,” he said. “Couple of days ago. It’s just a shell.”

Vught nodded. He glanced at the darkening sky. “We’ll go on to the next one.”

T
HE NEXT FARMHOUSE
had been burned, too, but they brought the wagon and horses into the yard, where the high stone walls gave shelter from the wind. The charred remains of barn and stables and living quarters made Jaumé uneasy. Had the farm been empty when it burned, or were there dead people in the blackened rubble?

It didn’t smell like a campfire, or a stubble fire. It smelled of lots of different things, some burned, some rotting. The burned-and-rotting odor made him think of Girond, and Mam lying dead on the floor, and Rosa screaming.

Jaumé set to work unsaddling the horses, but his gaze kept sliding to the wagon, and he could almost hear Da speaking to him in his head.
You got to destroy the curse, son. You got to do what you can
.

Bennick and Vught heaved the door shut. Part of it was burned, so they took a great, fallen beam and wedged it across the hole. The back door out to the jetty wasn’t broken. Jaumé crossed to it, opened it, looked out at the river. An upturned rowboat lay on the jetty. He closed the door again, drew the bar across, and went back to the horses.

The packsaddles were too heavy for him to remove, so he built a fire and took a pot and climbed up into the wagon to get water.

“Jaumé!” The princess gripped his arm. “Did you mean what you said, about reaching the stone tomorrow?”

“That’s what Vught said.”

The princess released his arm. She glanced at her soldier. “Jaumé,” the man said quietly. “Will you help her escape? Please?”

Jaumé clutched the pot tightly. He heard Da’s voice in his head.
You got to do what you can, son
. “I’ll put feverwort root in their tea tonight. It’ll make them both sick. So you can escape.”

The princess’s mouth opened, and then closed. She exchanged another glance with her soldier. “Feverwort root?”

“It’s an emmytick.”

The princess nodded. “I read about it in the
Pharmacopeia
. Do you think it will work? Is it strong enough?”

“The aldersman’s son ate a little bit.” Jaumé prized the lid from one barrel. “He couldn’t get out of bed for two days.”

The princess took hold of her soldier’s hand. “If they’re both sick, then you can come too, Karel. And you, too, Jaumé!”

Jaumé shook his head. “If Bennick’s sick, I need to look after him.”

“He’ll be all right, Jaumé. You don’t have to stay with him.”

“Yes, I
do
have to stay with him!” Jaumé said fiercely. “He looks after me, and I look after him. That’s how it works!” And for a reason he didn’t understand, there were tears in his eyes.

“Stay with him, if you must,” the soldier said.

Jaumé blinked back the tears and nodded. He ladled water into the pot.

“We’ll take the wagon,” the princess said. “I can drive it—”

“They’ve barricaded the door,” Jaumé said. “With a big beam. You’n me couldn’t move it.”

Her frown was swift. “Then how can we escape?”

“There’s another door, out to the river. And there’s a jetty. And a rowboat.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the princess said, “Rowboat?”

Jaumé nodded.

“But... the curse.”

“The river’s real calm. If you don’t row, if you just steer with an oar and let yourself drift, you won’t splash any water on you.”

The princess shook her head, her expression appalled.

Jaumé finished filling the pot and put the lid back on the barrel, jamming it in place. “Boats are easy. Easier than horses. And you don’t have to rest them. Vught’ll never catch up with you.”

But he could tell from the princess’s face that she didn’t think boats were easy, and that she was afraid of the water. He was suddenly angry with her. How could she be a coward now?

“You have to go!” he said, stamping his foot. “Or they’ll use you to kill your brother and the curse will just keep
killing
people.”

“I know,” the princess said. She pressed her hands to her face.

“Will a horse fit through that other door?” the soldier asked.

Jaumé nodded. “Yes.”

“Britta, take a horse and go.”

She looked at the soldier, lowered her hands, and asked, “Can you ride?”

The soldier shook his head. “Couldn’t get up on a horse, much less stay on it.”

“But you could get into a boat?”

The soldier hesitated. “Maybe.”

“And lie down, while it floats,” Jaumé said, lifting the heavy pot. “You could do that, couldn’t you?” He wanted the soldier to go. If he stayed, Vught or Bennick would kill him. “Bennick reckons the snow on the ground is cursed, too.”

The soldier frowned, his black eyebrows winging together. “He could be right.”

The princess blew out a breath. “All right, we’ll take the boat.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

T
HEY ONLY PUT
up one tent. “I think we should sleep as wolves tonight,” Innis said. “It’s safer.” She glanced at the prince. “Do you mind sharing a tent with wolves?”

He shook his head.

She studied his face. He looked weary, grim.

Rand had sent them with Prince Harkeld for protection, but it was more than that. If the prince became cursed, someone had to kill him and take his hand and blood to the anchor stone.
That’s why he sent us all with him
.

The prince wasn’t stupid. He’d have figured it out.

Petrus landed. “We need to check on the assassins. See where they are. You want to do it now, Justen, while I keep watch here?”

“I’ll do it,” Innis said.

Both Petrus and Prince Harkeld turned to her, frowning. “Justen can do it,” Petrus said, and the prince nodded.

“I’m a Sentinel, Petrus. Stop treating me like I’m a child, to sit at the fire and be kept safe.”

Petrus had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry.” He changed into an owl again and flew up to resume patrolling.

Innis looked at Justen.

“Do whatever you want,” Justen said equably. “Doesn’t bother me.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

J
AUMÉ LUGGED THE
pot to the fire and set up the iron tripod. Bennick and Vught were heaving packsaddles off the horses. Jaumé fetched the tea the Brothers drank each night, and all the herbs, and the billies. He set to work infusing willowbark and bone-knit and brewing tea for Bennick and Vught.

The feverwort plants were rolled up in hessian. Jaumé glanced at Bennick and Vught. They’d finished with the packsaddles and were unharnessing the horses from the wagon.

Jaumé unrolled the hessian, snapped off two pale roots, and dropped them into the billy of tea. Would that be enough? He snapped off two more roots, just to be sure, and hurriedly rolled up the hessian. Bennick and Vught were still busy with the wagon.

Jaumé put the herbs away. When he got back to the fire, the billy of tea was boiling. Feverwort roots were rolling over in the water like pale worms.

He pulled the billy off the flames. The water stopped boiling. The roots sank to the bottom. After a minute, the dark flakes of tea began settling. Jaumé watched, his stomach knotting with a combination of guilt and fear. There was still time to change his mind, to upturn the billy and tip out the roots and start over again.

But then the princess wouldn’t escape. And Bennick and Vught would tie her to a stake and use her to kill Prince Harkeld.

He put the tea to one side to steep, and the willowbark and bone-knit, too, and looked around, seeing snow and soot. Where would they sleep tonight? Not by the fire; the snow was melting into puddles of dangerous water.

He hunted through the rubble and found some blocks of stone and a couple of singed planks and made two low benches by the fire. A half-burned chopping block and an upturned iron bucket made good tables. He got mugs and plates and the salted ham and smoked sausages Vught had found, and laid everything out.

Bennick gave a grunt of approval when he saw it. “You’ve been busy.” He sat on one of the benches, sighed, scrubbed his whiskery face with his hands. “What a day.”

Vught lowered himself onto the other bench. Jaumé eyed them both nervously. Would they choose to drink their tea now, rather than later?

“How much further?” Bennick asked.

Vught reached under his cloak and pulled out the folded piece of vellum. “I reckon we’re only five or six miles from the end of the road. And from there it’s only a couple of miles to the stone.”

Both men bent over the map.

Jaumé turned to the billy of tea, fished out the feverwort roots, and threw them into the fire. They hissed and sizzled briefly, then turned black. He turned back to Bennick and Vught. His heart was thumping. It felt as if a horse galloped in his chest.

Bennick and Vught hadn’t noticed anything; they were still looking at the map.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

T
HE BOY BROUGHT
food, and a billy of willowbark and bone-knit brewed together. He didn’t meet their eyes, just shoved the plates and billy at them.

“Jaumé?”

The boy lifted his gaze.

“If you decide not to go to Fith, you’ll have safe refuge in Lundegaard,” Karel said. “You have my word, and Britta’s, on that. And if Britta and I aren’t there—if we don’t make it—tell King Magnas what you did for us. He’ll see that you’re taken care of. He’s a good man.”

The boy looked down at his boots. “It costs a groat to sail to Lundegaard.”

“There’s gold in my saddlebags. Take as much as you need. It’s not stealing; I’m giving it to you.”

Jaumé nodded, not looking at them, and ran back to the fire.

“I hope he listened,” the princess said. “I hope he realizes he has a choice.”

“I just hope Bennick and Vught don’t kill him.”

Britta glanced at him sharply. “You think they might?”

“Vught’d kill him in an instant, if he thought he had anything to do with us escaping.”

“But... Bennick wouldn’t let him.”

“Bennick’s an assassin. He’d kill the boy, too. He’s not sentimental about life and death.”

Karel looked at Jaumé, sitting beside Bennick at the fire, eating, and sent a brief prayer to the All-Mother:
Let the boy live.
Then, he looked at the food Jaumé had brought them. Salted pork, and smoked sausages. “Only eat the sausages,” he told Britta. “We can say the pork tasted off. That way they’ll think that’s what made them sick.”

They ate quickly, watching the Fithians. Bennick and Vught were drinking something out of mugs. The tea Jaumé had doctored? If so, how long would it be before the feverwort root took effect?

“I need to be out
there
before it starts,” Karel said, pointing at the yard. “I can’t get out of this wagon by myself.”