The Blood Curse (55 page)

“Do you know where Fith is?” Jaumé asked anxiously.

“Somewhere north. No one but Fithians know exactly where.”

“Is he facing north now?”

“He is.”

Petrus picked up Jaumé’s throwing knife. It lay in the snow, with Bennick’s blood on the blade. “You want this?”

Jaumé shook his head. “It was Bennick’s.” His voice wobbled slightly.

Petrus laid the knife alongside Bennick and came to stand beside Jaumé. He rested his hand on Jaumé’s shoulder. “You want to say words to the All-Mother for him, or shall I?”

“He wouldn’t want us to,” Jaumé said. His voice broke on the last word. Tears spilled from his eyes.

Petrus crouched, and hugged him.

Jaumé buried his face in the mage’s shoulder and cried in great, wrenching, anguished sobs.

“Ah, son,” Petrus said, and he stroked Jaumé’s hair and picked him up and carried him back to the tents, just the way Da used to carry him, his arms strong and tight.

Jaumé clung to him and cried and thought about Bennick’s body facing Fith. And then he thought about what Bennick had told him:
There’s nothing wrong with dying. We come, we go
.

At the tents, Petrus put him down, and stayed crouching, looking at him. “You saved a lot of people, you know? Not just me and Innis and Harkeld, but people all through the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jaumé sniffed, and gulped, and nodded.

Petrus stood. He rested his hand on the back of Jaumé’s neck in a way that felt safe and warm. “I’m going to light the fire and get us some food. Want to help?”

Jaumé scrubbed his face dry with his cloak. “Yes.”

While he was rummaging through the mages’ packsaddles, he remembered more of Bennick’s words.
We all go to the All-Mother in the end. Doesn’t matter how, or when.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE

K
AREL WAS NO
better or worse than he’d been yesterday. Britta brewed willowbark tea, and watched the roads, and wore the sword when she wasn’t in Karel’s bedchamber. At dusk, she closed the shutters and barred all the doors. The only thing that had changed from yesterday was that they had only one waterskin of safe water left.

“You know what I’d like most?” Karel said, when she was taking off her boots. “A bath. A bath and a razor.” He touched the black whiskers on his jaw.

Britta sat on the bed with her feet tucked under her. “There’s a bath tub here. I found it yesterday.”

Karel lowered his hand. His gaze drifted to a corner of the room and he frowned. “Britta... Yasma once said, Harkeld told you Queen Sigren was murdered.”

“Yes.” Murdered in her bath tub.

“Did he say anything else?”

“About Sigren?”

“About the other queens.”

The other queens? King Esger had had four wives, and they’d all died. “You mean... my mother was murdered, too?”

Karel glanced at her. “Harkeld told you?” She heard relief in his voice.

Britta shook her head. “No. I guessed. Did Father kill my mother?”

“Uh...” Karel looked away from her, to the corner again, as if he wished he could backtrack.

“Did he, Karel?”

“Uh... maybe. That’s what some of the older armsmen said.”

“Harkeld never said anything. Maybe he doesn’t know?” She fingered a wolf skin. “Why would Father kill my mother?”

“He wanted a son.”

And mother gave him five still-born babes, and me.

“It might not be true,” Karel said.

“From what I know of Father... it probably is.”

“I’m sorry,” Karel said. “I thought—I hoped—Harkeld had told you.”

Britta shook her head. She turned the edge of the wolf skin over, felt the thick, warm fur on one side and the supple hide on the other.

“I’m sorry,” Karel said again.

“I’d rather know than not know.” She looked at him and smiled crookedly. “It gives me another reason never to return to Osgaard.” Osgaard, where her father had murdered her mother, and her half-brother had poisoned her father, and in turn, been poisoned himself.

Karel nodded. “Lundegaard would be safer.”

Britta shook her head. “Not Lundegaard either.”

“But—”

“I told you, I don’t want to be a princess.”

“Then where?”

“Esfaban.”

“Esfaban?” Karel’s eyebrows rose.

“With you and Yasma. If Esfaban is freed. If I may.”

“Well, of course you
may
, but Britta, Esfaban’s been conquered. It’s... it’s
broken
. It needs to be put back together. If that’s even possible.”

“It is possible.” A kingdom that bred men like Karel would be able to rebuild itself. He had determination and courage and a far-sighted intelligence, as well as kindness and compassion. “If islanders are anything like you, Karel, you’ll get Esfaban back on its feet.”

“I hope so,” Karel said. “I hope we get the chance.” He fell silent, his gaze on the far wall, frowning slightly, and she thought he was thinking of Esfaban, and how it could be rebuilt.

After a while, he turned his head and said, “What about the boys? Will you take them to Esfaban?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll come with me; maybe they’ll stay with Magnas. It depends what’s best for them.”

Not long after that, Karel fell asleep. Britta blew out the candle and climbed under the wolf skins. She found Karel’s hand and held it, thinking of Esfaban. Would the people accept her? A Rutersvard princess, daughter of the family that had conquered and enslaved them?

But she didn’t want to go to Esfaban as a princess, or a Rutersvard: she wanted to go as Karel’s wife. If he would have her.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO

T
HE FEMALE MAGE
, Innis, stopped healing Prince Harkeld. There was nothing more she could do. “He’s lost a lot of blood. His body needs to make more.” She looked very worried. Jaumé thought that she’d been crying. Petrus hugged her for a long time and told her that
of course
the prince would be all right.

Jaumé peeked into the tent and looked at the prince and hoped Petrus was right.

“You’re sharing with me,” Petrus told him. “If you see a wolf, don’t worry, it’s just me. I’ll be in and out all night.”

Jaumé lay down on his sleeping mat, and wrapped himself in his blankets, but he didn’t close his eyes. Ivek’s curse was broken. No one else would die from it. Except maybe the prince.

He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Mam and Da and Rosa. For the first time since they’d died, it wasn’t the blood and Rosa’s scream that he remembered most, but all the other things. Da whistling while he hammered horseshoes on the anvil. Mam in the kitchen, kneading bread and singing. Rosa playing hide-and-seek in the barn. He remembered the wooden dolls Da had carved, and the tiny clothes Mam had sewed, and the look on Rosa’s face when she’d first seen them. He remembered how Mam used to throw her head back and laugh at Da’s jokes, and the way Mam and Da danced together on village feast days, holding each other close. And he remembered Rosa dancing too, skipping and clapping her hands, giggling.

He didn’t think about Bennick.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE

W
HEN
H
ARKELD WOKE
, he wasn’t sure where he was. A tent. But which tent? And where? He tried to remember back, but his memory was a hazy, chaotic blur. Not remembering was alarming. He pushed his blanket aside and struggled up onto one elbow. His head swam dizzyingly.

“Here,” someone said. “Drink some water.”

Harkeld turned his head and saw Innis. His alarm snuffed instantly. If Innis was here, everything was all right. “What happened?”

“You destroyed the anchor stone.”

“I did?” Relief washed through him. He lay back down.

“You lost a lot of blood. An awful lot of blood. The stone was just
sucking
it out of you.”

“It was? I don’t remember.”

“Just as well. It was nasty. You almost died.”

“Did I?” That must be why he felt so tired. “You saved my life again, huh?”

“Have some water,” Innis said, and propped his head up and pressed a mug to his lips.

Harkeld drank several mouthfuls.

“Don’t try to get up.” Innis put the mug down and pulled the blanket up around his throat. “You need to stay in bed, build up your blood again.”

Harkeld was fine with staying in bed. He didn’t feel like moving; he was exhausted. He closed his eyes, and then alarm grabbed him again and jerked his eyelids open. “Where’s Petrus? Is he all right?”

“Gone to look for Rand and Serril.”

I hope they survived
.

Harkeld fumbled for her hand, and held it, and closed his eyes again, and when he opened them, it felt like several hours had passed. Innis wasn’t holding his hand. She was no longer in the tent. A boy sat beside him. A stranger.

“Hello?” Harkeld said cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Jaumé.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harkeld said. Who was Jaumé? The assassin’s boy? He glanced around for a weapon. “I’m Harkeld.”

“I know,” the boy said. “I saw you in Ankeny. At the stone. When Bennick shot you.”

“You did?”

Jaumé nodded. “Can I see where he shot you?”

“Uh... all right.” Harkeld peeled back the blanket, undid a couple of buttons, and pushed his shirt aside.

The boy leaned close. “Right through the heart. Bennick said it was. He was really angry when the mages healed you.”

“I bet he was,” Harkeld said, doing up his shirt. He was amused, and confused. “Where’s Innis?”

“We heard a wolf. She’s gone to scare it away.”

“Oh.” He examined the boy. He was about eight or nine years old. Bright hazel eyes, dark brown hair, thin face. “How come you’re here?”

“It’s a long story,” Jaumé said.

“I’ve got time.”

Jaumé shrugged, and told his tale. Harkeld listened in astonishment. He forgot he was tired, forgot he was hungry and thirsty. Towards the end, he became aware the boy was skipping a few bits, skirting around something that he didn’t want to tell, but then Jaumé got to the part with the anchor stone and he forgot everything else. The assassin had shot Petrus? This boy had killed the assassin?

“You had the curse and were screaming—”

“
I
had the curse?”

The boy nodded. “And you were screaming and
screaming
and Innis said the veins were popping in your head.”

“They were?” Harkeld gingerly touched his forehead. He hoped the boy was exaggerating.

“And then you stopped screaming and just lay there. And that’s the end.”

“Huh.” Harkeld stared at the boy. He had a lot of questions; he wasn’t sure where to start.

The tent flap pushed open. Innis crawled inside. “You’re awake. Good. Did you give him some water, Jaumé?”

The boy hastily poured a mug and handed it to him.

Harkeld raised up on one elbow and sipped it.

“Did you find the wolf and scare it away?” the boy asked.

“I did.”

“How?”

Innis grinned. “Turns out wolves are afraid of lions.”

“Wolves aren’t dumb,” Harkeld said. He put down the mug. “Veins
popped
in my head?”