The Blood Curse (51 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

B
RITTA CHECKED THE
two outer doors, and retreated into the living quarters. Most of the doors had crossbars, which she slid across. She closed the shutters in Karel’s bedchamber, moved the waterskins, some food, several unlit candles, the tinderbox, and the sword, in there, and barred that door, too. Karel was awake, watching her.

Britta took off her boots, blew out the candle, and crawled under the wolf skins.

“Britta, you shouldn’t sleep in the same bed as me.”

“So get out and sleep on the floor,” she said, knowing he couldn’t.

Karel laughed. The sound choked off painfully.

They lay in silence for several minutes. The bed smelled of wolf skins, and sweat and blood.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” Karel said. “You looked like a doll.”

“I did?” She tried to remember back to the day he’d been assigned to her. Three years ago? Three and a half?

“You were dressed in pink and silver, and you had that crown on your head, and you looked so
pretty
.” The way he said it, it wasn’t a compliment. “Blue eyes and golden hair. Like a doll.”

Britta lay very still. His words felt like a slap on the face.

“I hated you,” Karel said. “Did you know that? I stood there and I looked at you and I hated you.”

Britta swallowed. “Why?”

“Because you were a Rutersvard.”

Britta bit her top lip. Tears were building in her eyes. She blinked them back.

“You went to see your father. Yasma came too, carrying your cloak. Do you remember?”

“No.”

“The cloak touched one of your father’s vases, one of the gold-embossed ones in the atrium, and knocked it over.”

“Oh.” Memory rushed at her: the smash of porcelain, her father’s red-faced rage.
Have her flayed!

“And then you stepped forward and said it was your fault. I thought he was going to hit you.”

Britta shivered. “So did I.”

Karel was silent for a moment. “Made me realize you weren’t a doll. Weren’t a Rutersvard.”

The tears came back, filling her eyes. She blinked them away.

“Esger never saw who you are, or Jaegar. Or Duke Rikard. All they ever saw was your face and that crown. Harkeld saw it, though.”

And you did.

She wanted to reach out and find his hand, but was afraid of his reaction. “I’m glad you were my armsman.”

“I was almost assigned to Esger.”

Britta shivered again. How different things would have been. For her, for him. “Why weren’t you?”

“I think... because I’m from Esfaban. They didn’t think I was good enough for the king.”

“You’re the only island armsman I’ve seen.”

“There are several training, but it’s tough. Not many get through.”

“How tough?”

“Oh... We start at fifteen. My intake had more than two thousand boys, from all over Osgaard’s territories. Two years training to be soldiers—both foot and mounted—then they pick out the best two hundred to train for the elite units.”

Britta worked it out quickly in her head. The best two hundred of two thousand boys... The top ten percent?

“That’s another year, and at the end of that, the best twenty go on to armsman’s training. And at the end of
that
, the best half dozen are trained to be royal bodyguards. Only two of us made it all the way through.”

“How long did it take?”

“All up, a bit more than five years.”

Five years, and only two men out of two thousand made it. He’d not been exaggerating when he’d said the training was tough.

“I went to you. Bertolt went to Esger.”

Bertolt. She could have had an armsman called Bertolt. If she had, her life would be quite different. She would never have escaped to Lundegaard, and her little half-brothers would be dead. Duke Rikard might even be alive—would Bertolt have killed him, as Karel had done?

Britta had a sudden, overwhelming, throat-choking awareness of just
how
great her luck had been.

She swallowed, and inhaled deeply several times. When she was certain she had control of her voice, she said, “Karel?”

He didn’t reply. He was asleep.

Britta reached out underneath the wolf skins and found his hand. A swordsman’s calloused hand.

Karel was badly injured, barely able to move, much less fight, but even so, he made her feel safe. He made her feel safe, and he made her feel strong. He made her feel as if she could achieve the impossible.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN

P
ETRUS STAYED CLOSE
to the campsite, gliding silently through the trees. Clouds gathered over the mountains and blotted out the moon and stars. Was a snowstorm brewing?

Midway through the night, he swapped with Innis. She was curled up as a wolf, just inside the tent entrance. Petrus shook her awake. Innis crept outside and changed into herself. The fire had died down to a few glowing embers. Without owl eyes, the forest was pitch black. “Everything’s fine,” he said, in a low voice. “Didn’t see anything moving.”

Innis put a hand on his arm and leaned close. “What about the princess and the armsman?” she whispered. “Are they with the assassin?”

“They’re not with him, and they’re not where you saw them last night. I checked. There are no bodies, nothing. I reckon they escaped.”

“Escaped?”

“I think they took a boat.”

“A boat? On that river?” Her voice was appalled.

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow. After the anchor stone. Maybe we’ll find them.” The chances weren’t good.
They’re probably dead. Or cursed
.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN

B
ENNICK CRAWLED OUT
of the tent at dawn. He went to the spot he’d chosen and stood there, watching, waiting. Jaumé stayed in the tent, peering through the opening. He could barely make Bennick out, even though he knew he was there, and if he could hardly see Bennick, how would Prince Harkeld and the witches see him?

Agitation gnawed in Jaumé’s chest.

Bennick had his bow and arrows, and his sword, and his heavy throwing knife, and his Stars. Jaumé knew how swift and deadly Bennick was. He hit his target every time. Jaumé remembered the cursed hillmen. Bennick had killed three of them faster than he could blink.

Somehow, he had to stop Bennick killing the prince.

Snowflakes began to drift down. The far hillside retreated behind a haze of falling snow.

“Couldn’t be better,” Bennick said, cheerful. “The snow will cover our tracks.”

Jaumé’s agitation grew. It jittered and twisted and gnawed inside him. He kept his eyes fixed on the snow-covered lump that was the curse stone.
Don’t come
, he begged the prince silently.
Don’t come!

But he knew the prince would come. And he knew he had to stop Bennick from killing him. He just didn’t know how.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN

F
AT, WHITE SNOWFLAKES
floated down through the black trees. The flakes stuck to Harkeld’s eyelashes, his clothes, the ground. By mid-morning, the orange larch needles were covered in a thick layer of white. And on top of that, was the oily stain of Ivek’s curse.

The track wound its way steeply downhill. Beneath the fresh snow, yesterday’s half-melted snow had refrozen into ice, slick and treacherous. Harkeld moved slowly, cautiously.
I wanted a snowy winter. What a fool I was.

Another hour passed. The track became narrower, steeper. His boots slipped on larch needles, on ice, on snow. And each time he slipped, his heart lurched in his chest.

Innis was fifty yards ahead, five horses strung out behind her. Beyond her, the ground looked as if it flattened.
Almost there
. Harkeld took a big stride, skidded on needles, grabbed at the air, and tumbled backwards.

He lay where he’d fallen, afraid to move, afraid to inhale. Snowflakes spun down out of the sky and settled on his face.
Am I cursed?

He didn’t seem to be.

Slowly, Harkeld pushed up to sit. Cursed snow clung to his cloak, his sleeves, his hands. He breathed shallowly.

Petrus landed on the track and changed into himself. “Don’t move. I’ll help you up.”

“My curse shadow hasn’t changed?” His voice was thin with fear.

“No.”

Harkeld took another shallow breath. “Careful. It’s rutting slippery.”

“No kidding.” Petrus took a cautious barefooted step. “It’s—ouch—” He stumbled, lost his balance, fell full-length in the snow.

Harkeld scrambled into a crouch. “Petrus?”

Petrus pushed frantically to hands and knees, shook his head, spat. “It got in my mouth!”

They stared at each other. He saw the terror in Petrus’s eyes, saw his curse shadow began to darken.

“Petrus,
change shape!
” Harkeld yelled.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN

H
ARKELD STARED AT
the wolf. The wolf stared back at him. It was as motionless as he was, not one muscle moving. A shimmer of magic coated its thick fur—but no curse shadow that he could see.

Harkeld inhaled a shallow breath. He straightened from his crouch.

The wolf still didn’t move. He’d never before realized how expressive a wolf’s body language was. The set of Petrus’s ears, the angle of his tail, the way he stood, stiffly, with splayed paws—his terror was plain to see.

Petrus’s eyes were no longer green. They were golden, and anguished.

Harkeld swallowed, found his voice. “You don’t have a curse shadow now.” He shook the cursed snow from his cloak, brushed it off his sleeves, walked the two steps to Petrus, and crouched and hugged the wolf.

Petrus leaned against him and whimpered.

“I think it’s going to be all right.” Harkeld raised his head and bellowed, “Innis!”

Petrus was shivering. Not because he was cold; his fur was dense and thick.

Harkeld hugged the wolf more tightly, stroking the silvery fur.
Let him be all right, please, All-Mother. I beg you
. He knew he couldn’t burn Petrus to death.

He heard Innis scrambling up the slope.