The Blood Curse (9 page)

Harkeld stood too, with clumsy, painful haste. “How do you know we’re sharing dreams?
I
don’t even know that!” But he did know, deep down. The dreams had been so unusual, so
real
.

Petrus halted. He stood motionless for a long moment, then breathed out sharply through his nose and turned back to face Harkeld. “Innis told me.”

“Well, she didn’t tell
me
.”

Petrus shrugged again, a movement jerky with anger. “I thought Rand had. He said you needed to know.”

Outrage dulled Harkeld’s pain. He almost didn’t feel his ribs any more. “Rand? She told
him
about the dreams, but not
me
? Why?”

“She wanted to know what they mean.”

Harkeld fastened on that last word. “Mean? What do they mean?”

Petrus’s lips pressed together. He looked away. The silence lengthened until Harkeld thought the mage wouldn’t reply.

Petrus inhaled deeply and turned his head. He stared at Harkeld, his eyes black in the darkness. “Mages who share dreams develop a strong bond. They usually marry.”

Marry? Harkeld opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Marry Innis?

His response was instinctive:
Never
. Innis was a
mage
. She’d lied to him. Deceived him.

But on the heels of that thought, came memory of the dreams: the deep intimacy between them, the companionship, the pure contentment he’d felt in her company...

Harkeld understood the bitterness on Petrus’s face.
But you love Innis
. He didn’t say the words aloud.

“If you have any questions, ask Rand,” Petrus said flatly. “Not me.”

Harkeld nodded. “Thanks.”

Petrus snorted. “I should break your ribs more often. It’s improved your manners.”

Harkeld touched his chest with both hands, lightly. The faint pressure brought pain. He tried to hide a wince. “I don’t like being lied to.”

“We were trying to keep you alive.”

Harkeld lifted one shoulder in a shrug, conceding this point. Shame trickled into the void where his anger had been. The mages had deceived him—but at the same time they’d risked their lives for him. And they’d died for him. “I know. And I am grateful. Truly.”

Petrus snorted again. The sound was followed by a sigh. “Rut it. Let me finish fixing those ribs.”

“Thanks,” Harkeld said again. “I... um... would appreciate that.”

They went into the stables and hunkered down in an empty stall amid the scents of hay and dung and wet leather. Rain drummed steadily on the roof. Petrus’s healing magic was rough and blunt and slow, quite different from Innis’s complex, subtle magic.
I wonder what my healing magic is like?

He thought about this for several minutes, while Petrus methodically worked his way down his ribcage. “Can I find out how strong my healing magic is?”

“You want to?”

Harkeld considered this question. Did he want to become more of a mage than he already was? More of an abomination, more of an outcast? “Maybe.”

“There’s a test—breath and blood—that shows what kind of magic you have.”

“Jussi’s Oil,” Harkeld said. “Ebril told me about it.” He fell silent, remembering red-haired Ebril.

Petrus was silent, too. The patter of rain on the shingle roof was loud. Nearby, a horse shifted its weight and sighed, a heavy sound.

“The test gives an indication of how strong your ability is.” Petrus’s voice had a harsh edge. He’d been thinking of Ebril, too. “But it’s not always accurate. The instructors do their best, but some people never learn to use their magic.”

The instructors
... Harkeld frowned. His instructor in fire magic had been Cora. He remembered the terror he’d felt lighting his first candle, and he remembered Cora as he’d last seen her: dead in the rain, a throwing star buried in her skull.

Petrus worked his way along another rib. The pain in Harkeld’s chest eased to an ache. His thoughts slid sideways, to Innis.
She knew we were sharing dreams, but she didn’t tell me
. She’d told Rand, though, and Petrus.

A spark of anger flared alight in his chest. Harkeld snuffed it, as he would snuff a flame with his fire magic. He was tired of being angry, tired of hating the mages.

We’re companions in this nightmare. Their lives are forfeit too, not just mine
.

Nine mages dead already. He could recite their names. Dareus. Susa. Frane. Gerit. Ebril. Katlen. Hew. Linea. Cora.

Some he’d barely known. Others...

Dareus, he’d come to respect. And Cora. And laughing, red-haired Ebril had been his friend. Harkeld thought he could probably be friends with Petrus, too, and the real Justen, if he let himself.

His attention slid back to what Petrus had told him. Innis had been inside his head, he’d been inside hers. They’d dreamed together. The conversations, the sex, the companionship, the sense of connection, the bone-deep happiness—Innis had experienced those things, too.

And she didn’t tell me.

The spark of anger re-ignited. Harkeld quenched it. He examined his thoughts, trying to decide how he felt about Innis.
Do I trust her? Do I love her?

In the dreams, the answers were easy: yes, and yes. Here, sitting in the stables, his clothes sodden and filthy, with rain streaming down outside and Petrus mending his broken ribs, Harkeld wasn’t so certain.

Petrus lowered the shirt. “There,” he said. “You’re done.” And after a beat: “Whoreson.”

Harkeld grunted.
I could be friends with him
. “Thank you,” he said, and after a beat: “Whoreson.”

Petrus stood. “You’re welcome. Witchspawn.”

Harkeld climbed to his feet. Witchspawn. It was a good insult. He filed it away, and followed Petrus back to the taproom.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

B
ENNICK WAS SINGLE-MINDED
, driven, leaning forward in his saddle, straining to see past the next rise in the road, the next bend. They rose before dawn and didn’t halt until long after night had fallen. Jaumé had no time to practice with his throwing knife, or the new sword.

“Where are we going?” he dared to ask, on the second evening. They sat hunched over a small fire, chewing dried meat and tough bread. Bennick had boiled half a billy of water and scattered tea leaves in it.

“Bloedel.” Bennick strained the tea leaves from the water and offered the billy to Jaumé.

Jaumé shook his head. He didn’t like the tea the Brothers drank. Too strong, too bitter.

Bennick shrugged, and swallowed a long mouthful of tea and smacked his lips.

“Are we going to Bloedel to find the prince?” Jaumé ventured.

Bennick glanced at him. “To meet someone.”

Jaumé bit his lip. Dare he ask a third question? “A Brother?”

Bennick looked away. “To bed with you, lad. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

K
AREL AND HIS
men rode out of Groderling before dawn and pushed west at a hard pace. A blustery wind pushed clouds like gray tufts of wool across the sky. After two hours, they came to a village. The Fithians’ cart had passed through twenty minutes ago. “Twenty minutes!” Prince Tomas said, his eyes alight. “We’ll catch them soon!”

Prudence
, Karel told himself.
Prudence
. It took all his self-control not to leave the village at a gallop.

The road wound up a wooded slope, then dipped west, and there—
there
—in the distance was a covered cart and a handful of riders.

Karel reined in.

Tomas halted alongside him. “How do you want to do this?”

Six of them. Twelve of us
.

“We split in two,” Karel said. “Six of us overtake them, six ride behind. Then, we attack. Sire, you and Gunvald and Ture concentrate on the cart. Get her out, and get away. Don’t wait for us, don’t engage, just head for Groderling as fast as you can.”

Prince Tomas grimaced, but made no protest.

K
AREL CANTERED TOWARDS
the cart, five armsmen strung out behind him. His heart hammered in his chest, pushing his blood fiercely through his arteries.

The cart moved at an unhurried pace, the horses ambling. As he drew closer he heard the riders talking among themselves, laughing. One of them was whistling.

Karel slowed to pass the cart at a trot, the gelding’s hooves kicking up puffs of dust.

The man driving the cart stopped whistling. He gave a cheerful wave. “Good day to ye.”

Karel lifted a hand in response, and examined the Fithians. They weren’t what he’d expected. None of them had the hard, lean savagery of the man he’d killed in Lundegaard. One was young enough to be called a boy, another middle-aged, with a jowled face and large belly. They all appeared unarmed.

The cart was older than he’d thought it would be, the canopy sun-faded and patched. The front flap was tied back. Inside, Karel caught a glimpse of turnips.

His heart seemed to stop beating.
It’s the wrong cart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

B
RITTA SAT DROOPING
in the saddle, feigning exhaustion. Lumpy hills surrounded them. Straggling herds of goats foraged on saw-leafed grass and twisted thorn trees. The air was cool, crisp. They must have climbed during the days she’d spent in the cart. The settlements they passed were small. Villages, not towns, enclosed by rough palisades. Inside the palisades were wooden houses with wooden shingles on their roofs, and dirt streets. There were fewer refugees on the roads than she’d expected—the odd cart, some wagons, a few donkeys piled with household goods. She remembered what Prince Kristof had said: Roubos’s king, Salavert, had told his people not to flee, that the All-Mother would protect them. It seemed most of them were obeying him.

But Kristof had also said that Sault was evacuating as fast as it could. Where were those refugees?

She pictured Sault in her head—a rough square, with impenetrable mountains along its eastern coast—and tried to imagine she was a refugee. If she came from the south or west of the kingdom... she’d flee to Sault’s western coast and sail to Lundegaard. And if she lived in the north... she’d head for the ports on Roubos’s northern coast, and from there to the safety of the Allied Kingdoms.

Viewed like that, the empty roads made sense. The exodus was happening north of here, south of here.

Britta glanced beneath half-lowered eyelids at Plain, riding alongside her, holding her reins.

Next time we pass through a town I’ll tear the reins free, bolt, scream for help.

But Fithians killed without remorse. They’d have no hesitation in slaughtering innocent townspeople. Men. Women. Children.

Next time we pass close to some trees, I’ll jump off the mare and hide among them
.

But the stands of thorn trees—dense and tangled though they were—wouldn’t hide her for more than a few minutes.

Britta let her head loll on her neck. She examined the road, the ditches, the rocky hillsides and meager creeks, the farmhouses, the villages inside their palisades. She felt alert. She felt hopeful. The Fithians were no longer drugging her. She had a mount of her own. The opportunity to escape would come. She just had to recognize it when it did.