Cursebreaker

by Carol A Park

  “Just…give me a few minutes to think,” Vaughn said. He picked up the book and walked away from the group.

  Vaughn wandered over to the shrine’s entrance and ducked inside. Yasril had drifted away, but Thrax and Saylyn were still arguing at the pedestal.

  He pulled one of the latest Ichtacan inventions out of his pouch. It looked like a miniature qixli, except in place of a round glass panel the size of two palms there was a thumb-sized glass panel cut in the shape of a flame. He touched his thumb to the silvery flame. A few seconds later, it began to glow.

  He set it in the middle of the small chamber and sat down against the far wall amongst their gear.

  He laid his head back against a faded mural of blood being collected in some sacred ritual. What would Xiuheuhtli think about his sacred shrine being used as a hiding place for their supplies?

  Perhaps he wouldn’t mind, considering it was helping one of his Banebringers escape death—or worse.

  More likely, if the deity attached to this shrine even existed, he was as indifferent to mortal happenings as the rest of the heretic gods were.

  Except, apparently, Danathalt—the god of the abyss. Maybe they weren’t all as indifferent as they seemed. He had to hope that.

  He frowned and flipped through the book.

  If it could be called that. It was actually half a book that had been torn in two, and they had the first half. Unlike most of the old texts they had scrounged up through the years, this was not an ancient religious tome. They knew exactly when it had been produced because most of its pages had a date. It spanned a period of several months, over thirty-two years ago.

  Far from the crumbling pages of ancient hymns or prescriptions for sacrifice, it appeared to be a diary or journal of sorts recording the details of an archaeological expedition at this very site.

  They didn’t know what the results of the expedition had been because there was no record of it at any of the three universities in Weylyn, Arlana, and Cadmyr, respectively.

  He found the page he was looking for and ran his fingers over the sketch that had been made there. It was of a monument the original archaeological expedition had dug up, mostly still intact. It was, by all accounts, a serpent—a larger replica of the same fiery serpent Vaughn had been studying earlier, except not a relief, but a statue. The author of the book described the monument as being man-high when set upright: one could walk into its open mouth and stand there, as if being swallowed up. Writing had been etched around the serpent’s lips—and duplicated in the sketch—in a language none among the Ichtaca could identify, let alone read.

  The expedition members had found the serpent early on in their expedition and had spent most of the rest of it puzzling over the language and digging up other artifacts.

  He flipped the book over to read the last intact page. The author’s excitement was evident:

  “Today, we made an incredible discovery: a tablet with text in the mystery language and what we’re assuming is the same text translated into Xambrian! I’m certain with this information, we’ll be able to make headway deciphering the meaning of the words on the serpent. Of course, I’m the only one here who knows Xambrian, and this is all to be kept quiet—for now. If the Conclave discovered what we found here, let alone that we’re working with other languages, that would be the end of this expedition—and probably the end of all of us. They still think we’re investigating a site about the ancient Donian nomads. Ha! I’ll make a sketch of the tablet later tonight. I’m meeting G in a few minutes.”

  Except there was no “later tonight.” The rest of the book was missing—or had been destroyed.

  Vaughn was inclined to think the former. Why destroy only half of it, after all? The Conclave would have no reason to rip a book like this in half and leave the rest to be discovered.

  For a while, the initial excitement over the journal’s discovery had caused quite a stir. It wasn’t a shrine they had run across before—what if there were other artifacts? Sometimes, to their collectors—like Dax—it seemed as though they had exhausted any source of new information about their patrons.

  Unfortunately, an initial foray to the site some time ago had turned up nothing. Oh, they had found the shrine all right—completely overgrown. But no serpentine statue, no miraculous second half of the book, and so the interest had died away.

  Until Dax had come back from the south with a rotting manuscript that held a rather fantastical story not about the heretic gods, but about Banebringers—and that described a similar-looking serpent. There were no copies of the mysterious language, but there was an explanation as to the supposed function of the serpent: it was a doorway to the gods. The story indicated the serpent harnessed the power of the sky-fire each year to allow Banebringers to travel to, best as they could translate, “the heavens.” Why anyone would want to visit the gods was another matter.

  A shadow fell across the door and Danton poked his head inside. “So…the others want to know what we’re going to do.”

  Vaughn looked up at Danton. “What do you think?”

  Danton entered the shrine and settled himself down on the other side of the qixli-light. “I don’t know, Vaughn. This has been interesting and all, but I think if there were anything else to discover, we would have discovered it by now.” He hesitated. “I think…maybe the resources we’re expending here might be better used elsewhere.”

  “We have the inscription,” Vaughn muttered. “We just don’t know how to read it.”

  “And we’ve found nothing here to help us do that. We haven’t even found this supposed serpent-door.”

  Vaughn waved his hand. The serpent statue itself might be redundant; physical objects were only ever used in their magic as foci. They weren’t technically necessary components to make the magic work, just to make it work without chancing something unintended happening. Which, admittedly, depending on the type of aether, could be…drastic.

  Of course, that all assumed aether was used to make it work in the first place, and how it worked was what Vaughn aimed to find out. “A doorway to the gods, Danton. A doorway to the same gods who cursed us. I know Yaotel thinks I’m crazy—but Danathalt is somehow helping the Conclave. How are we supposed to ultimately counter him without the help of another god?”

  Danton clenched his fist. “Damn it, Vaughn, you know I respect you, but I think at this point you’re being stubborn for the sake of it, and it’s putting all of us in danger.”

  Vaughn glanced up at Danton. His normally bright face was shadowed. The last eighteen months—since their plan to expose the Conclave had gone so disastrously wrong—had been difficult for them all, what with the loss of their safe house in Weylyn and the Conclave’s redoubled efforts to find and destroy Banebringers.

  Vaughn was being stubborn, and not without reason. But his personal reason—which Danton didn’t know about—for wanting this to succeed wasn’t worth risking all their lives.

  Vaughn stood up and brushed himself off. Time for Plan B. “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing else for us to do here.” He picked up the book and the qixli-light and ducked out of the shrine. The others had scattered. Yasril was nowhere to be seen—probably returned to his post. Dax, likewise, was still gone. Saylyn was standing in front of the pedestal, peering at carvings etched into it. And Thrax…

  Vaughn looked up. Just as he had thought. Thrax was twelve feet up, on top of the shrine, playing with fire. As Vaughn watched, Thrax crushed a bit of aether in one hand and turned his little ball of fire into a tiny tornado. It moved toward the edge of Thrax’s palm, as if intent on some imaginary path.

  “All right, everyone,” Vaughn said. “Gather our stuff. We’re done here.”

  Thrax sat up, and the whirlwind sputtered out. “What, really?” he called down.

  “Yes. It isn’t worth the danger.”

  There was no argument, not even from Saylyn.

  Danton dogged his steps. “Why do I
feel like this decision isn’t as simple as it sounds?”

  Vaughn stopped and put his hand on Danton’s shoulder. “Danton, my friend, you know me too well.”

  Danton groaned. “You’re not actually giving up, are you?”

  Vaughn grinned. The very thought of Plan B had lifted his spirits. “I think it might be time to look up an old friend of ours who happens to know a lot more than she ought about languages.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” Vaughn said. “And you’re coming with me.”

  “Why in the abyss would I—?”

  “Because I need company,” Vaughn said. “Anyway, she always seemed a little fond of you. Your presence might soften her up.”

  Danton crossed his arms over his chest. “Didn’t Yaotel gave you explicit instructions to go to Ferehar after you were done here?”

  Vaughn pointed the book at Danton. “Exactly. When I’m done here. And I’m not done, am I?”

  “I don’t think that’s what he—”

  Vaughn spread his arms to either side of himself. “Look, I will go to Ferehar. This is just a slight detour.”

  Danton gave him a skeptical look.

  Vaughn tapped the book onto Danton’s chest a few times. “Are you coming with me or not?”

  Danton sighed. He glanced around the clearing, where the others had already gathered most of their things together, as if that would give him some solution. “Why don’t you contact Yaotel first and ask—”

  “Ask.” Vaughn snorted. “Danton, Danton, Danton.”

  “You’re going to be in so much trouble.”

  “Fortunately…” Vaughn flexed the fingers of one hand and flashed Danton a smile. “I excel at managing trouble.”

  Chapter Two

  The Donian

  Driskell brushed an imaginary speck off his tunic, pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and snugged the portfolio he held in one arm close to his chest. The double doors in front of him were made of rysta—an import from Cadmyr. The dark, luscious wood was ornately carved and beautifully crafted; the doors were thick and heavy.

  The effect was imposing, and even after more than a year of service to the Ri of Donia and his daughter, his stomach couldn’t help but squirm a bit before he knocked on these doors.

  He knocked anyway.

  “Come,” a deep voice called from within.

  He opened the door enough for him to pop a head through. “Lady Nahua?” he asked, his eyes searching for the Ri’s daughter in the midst of the conference room.

  Nahua stood at the long table that took up most of the room. She looked up at him and nodded. “Driskell.”

  The Ri stood next to his daughter. Driskell never noticed how tall Nahua was until she stood next to her father. Ri Tanuac was considered tall, and Nahua almost matched him in height. She always carried herself with a confident grace that belied her relatively few thirty-three years and made Driskell feel all the younger by comparison—at his mere nineteen years of age.

  A large map of Setana was laid out in front of the two of them. No one else was in the room, which made his entrance feel like an intrusion into a private conversation. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but, I have an, ah, unusual message.”

  Nahua gestured to him. “Come in.”

  He pushed the door open a bit farther, slid through the crack, and then closed it gently behind him. Even so, the heavy door shut with a resounding thud.

  Nahua held out her hand as he approached. “For me?” she asked.

  “Oh! No. I was just holding this when…” He faltered. It was an odd message. Perhaps he should have waited. But the man in the vestibule had been so insistent.

  Nahua raised her eyebrow. “Can this wait?”

  Nahua was kind; she was also efficient.

  There was no help for it; he would look ten times the fool if he left now. He cleared his throat. “There’s a man by the name of Yaotel in the entrance hall. He’s… Well, he’s asking to see you.”

  Nahua’s eyebrow rose even higher. “Me?”

  “Well, no. Ri Tanuac. But Dal Anwell told him he couldn’t see the Ri without an appointment. He was politely insistent that it couldn’t wait, so they fetched me. I offered to see if you were available.” He shrugged his shoulders apologetically. He hoped that had been the right course of action. “He says he’s come with a proposal that, in his words, ‘may be of great aid to Donia in the coming months.’”

  Nahua exchanged a glance with Tanuac.

  “What did you say his name was again?” Tanuac asked.

  “Yaotel. He comes representing the…” Driskell pursed his lips. “Ichtaca, I think he said.”

  Nahua now addressed Tanuac. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Tanuac shook his head. “No.” He pressed his lips together. “Well, Nahua. We’re done here, anyway. Why don’t you go greet our visitor?” The corners of his eyes were already creased by, Driskell suspected, years of quiet amusement suppressed to preserve the dignity befitting a Ri. They crinkled further now—without tugging at his lips. “I trust your judgment as to whether he should be welcomed or ejected.”

  Nahua inclined her head to the Ri and then strode toward Driskell.

  “Come with me,” she said. “I hope you have something to write with.”

  Driskell whipped a notebook and pencil out of the pouch that hung from his belt. “Always, my lady.”

  She gave him a fond smile. “Well, let’s go see what this is all about, shall we?”

  Driskell hurried to keep up with Nahua, who strode down the hallway at a purposeful clip. Dal Anwell, Ri Tanuac’s steward, was waiting in the vestibule with the man named Yaotel. Yaotel’s dark brown skin marked him immediately as Donian or Venetian—in heritage, at least; who knew what region he called home now? A hint of cool undertones pointed to some Fuilynian ancestry, albeit generations back. His coarse, dark brown hair was clipped short, and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache hugged his jawline, chin, and upper lip. With the grey sprinkled through his beard, Driskell guessed him to be about the same age as Ri Tanuac—in his late fifties—but the lines etched into this man’s face weren’t at the corners of his eyes. Rather, they were at his brow.

  In any case, right now he appeared completely at ease, admiring some of the artwork adorning the walls while he waited. Anwell, on the other hand, was agitated. His thin, aging hands were folded politely in front of him, but his eyes kept darting to the clock on a side table.

  Anwell was a model steward, but he also didn’t like his time being wasted. He lit up when he saw Nahua. “Ah, my lady,” he said, meeting Nahua in the center of the room. “I’m so sorry to disturb you. Driskell thought that perhaps if he met with someone of importance, he might be mollified…”

  “Has he been a nuisance, Dal?” Nahua asked.

  “No, my lady. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Very well. You may go attend to your duties. I’ll take care of this.”

  Anwell bowed and scurried off.

  Yaotel had turned toward them, his face placid.

  “Yaotel, I presume?” Nahua said.

  He inclined his head. “Nahua, I presume?”

  Nahua’s mouth quirked up. “I’m told you have some matter of great importance to share with us. Ri Tanuac has given me leave to hear what you have to say.”

  “I’m told you’re the Ri’s daughter?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s been many years since I’ve been home, my lady, but I hadn’t heard Donia had begun to imitate its neighbors in moving to a more hereditary system,” Yaotel said. “What role do you play here?”

  Driskell’s notebook was already out and pencil at the ready, so he made a note of Yaotel’s response, which was surely tongue-in-cheek. All Ri were ostensibly elected, and the seven regions varied wildly on how closely they followed the letter of that law. Donia had always prided itself in being the most rigorous in ensuring fair elections when the time came; its neighbor to the northwest, Fereha
r, was at the opposite end of the spectrum.

  Nahua’s face betrayed no hint of offense, however; knowing Nahua, she was probably amused. “I am the Ri’s closest advisor, confidant, and legally appointed representative in his absence,” she said. “If that does not suffice, you will have to make an appointment.”

  Yaotel nodded. “It will suffice. Is there somewhere we may discuss this privately?” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully toward an open door to the side of the hall, where the heads of a few curious clerks had popped out of the doorway.

  Driskell studied Yaotel. He was not a short man, but Nahua still towered over him by at least an inch.

  Most men found this intimidating; Yaotel seemed completely at ease. Worthy of another note in his notebook.

  Nahua collected a guard, and the four of them moved down the hall. The guard patted Yaotel down and then nodded him into a small conference room Anwell used to meet with his staff. The guard took up a position outside the door, which Nahua closed after them.

  She gestured for Yaotel to sit at the table within. Nahua sat on the opposite side, and Driskell in the middle.

  Yaotel looked at Driskell as if seeing him for the first time, but Nahua intercepted his question. “Ri Tanuac’s attaché,” she said—though in reality Driskell functioned more often as her attaché. “Anything you have to say can and will be said in front of him, and he will take notes.”

  Driskell already had his notebook open on the table and pencil poised.

  Yaotel nodded in acquiescence.

  Nahua folded her hands on the table expectantly. “Go on, and cut straight to the point, if you please.”

  “As you wish. The Conclave has seized control of Weylyn City. With the king acquiescing to their demands, they essentially control the United Setanan Army. Of course, they also have at their disposal thousands of what you call Banebringers.”

  Yaotel was referring to the scandal of the “research facility” the Conclave had been keeping right under the foundations of Weylyn City, the largest city in the Empire. They had threatened to slaughter the thousands of Banebringers in their care if power wasn’t ceded to them.