Cursebreaker

by Carol A Park

  A murmur did run through the crowd at Airell’s words, but Vaughn merely returned his brother’s smile. He’d been hoping Airell would bring that up. “Then why, when you captured me some months ago, didn’t you send for a Hunter to Sedate me? Why did you keep me alive to torture me instead, risking the lives of your entire estate for the pleasure of your new masters? No, brother, it is you who will not speak to me of laws because the Conclave cannot even keep their own.”

  The crowd fell silent again. Vaughn’s accusations of the Conclave were accusations everyone had heard and few disbelieved—but one still didn’t speak of them openly.

  He wasn’t worried. Aleena was out there somewhere watching the crowd for threats, and Ivana was out there somewhere watching him. If someone—a Conclave priest, for instance—made a sudden move, she would be ready to use her own magic to stop it—literally.

  Unless, of course, seeing Airell again had distracted her. He would have left her back at the inn to be on the safe side, but he needed her, and she promised she’d behave.

  No matter what happened, the hundreds who had trailed along hoping for some excitement were about to get it.

  Airell eyed him silently for a moment, no doubt weighing his options. Finally, he raised his hand in the air and brought it down in a chopping motion, as if that were the end of it. “Guards. Arrest both of them.”

  Two of the guards moved forward warily.

  “Before you do that,” Vaughn said to the guards, though he pitched his voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, “you might be interested to know that all those excess taxes Lord Airell has been levying are going straight to those same Conclave traitors.”

  The murmur was back, and as those in the front passed Vaughn’s words to those at the back, it swelled with an angry undercurrent.

  Airell’s voice took on a patronizing overtone. “Now, brother. How could you possibly know that?”

  Vaughn ignored him. “And if that’s not enough to convince you,” he continued, still speaking to the approaching guards, “you might consider that Lord Airell is not even the lawful regent. That title belongs to another.”

  The guards halted and exchanged a glance with each other, as if uncertain of what they should do. Then one of them turned to look at Airell.

  Airell eyed the rustling crowd again. “You have no authority here,” he said at last. “I am Gildas’ closest living kin, and as such, even should I relinquish the title of Ri, I am still in charge. And I say you are demonspawn and will rot until a Hunter can be called. Or do you intend to take my palace by force with your paltry honor guard?” He raised an eyebrow at Thrax, lips curled up into a smile.

  Vaughn didn’t expect Airell to surrender, which was why he had a hidden card—if it decided to play itself.

  And then it did.

  The crowd parted. Askata made her way through the gaggle of servants watching from the courtyard on the other side of the palace wall, trailed by Danton in his role as her personal guard. Her bearing was regal, her chin held high, and her eyes flashing—and a maid scurried in her wake. She was a sight to behold—Thaxchatichan herself might have trembled before her.

  She spoke only four words, and they carried naturally across the square. “Whose palace, my son?”

  Airell’s face paled.

  The crowd hushed once more, all eyes on Askata. “Since you relieved my husband’s original steward, by law I am his closest living kin, and I am the one in charge.”

  She glided farther forward. “And I say there will be an election, and my third-born son, Teyrnon, and his attendants will be welcome at the palace—and under my protection—until the matter of the next Ri is decided.”

  It was only then that Airell realized what was happening. “You intend to challenge me?” He laughed, high and shrill. “A Banebringer? What sane person would elect a demonspawn over me?”

  At this, the crowd went eerily silent, possibly more silent than Airell would have liked.

  “This man is a Banebringer,” Airell said to the crowd, disbelief coloring his voice. “Demonspawn!”

  A voice near the front of the crowd shouted out, “Pot, meet kettle!” There was an answering wave of agreement, no longer a murmur.

  Vaughn felt, rather than saw, the crowd press in closer behind him, and Airell took a step back.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Vaughn’s back. Come on, Airell. Just give it up. He did not want this to become a mob execution.

  Then at last Airell held up his hands with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Very well, very well. I will relinquish control to Lady Askata, the rightful regent.” He eyed the crowd once more. “In fact, as a measure of good will, I will surrender to Lady Askata and allow myself to be imprisoned until such a time as I can be cleared of all accusations by winning the…election.”

  Vaughn stepped in toward him and spoke softly so that only Airell could hear him. “Saving your neck by forcing our mother to protect you? Wise move.” He met his brother’s eyes. “But let’s be clear about something. You seem to think I’m the cowardly child who fled that night. Who had no idea what was happening to him. Or even the man you managed to subdue and keep at your whims, not so long ago.

  “You were right to keep me constrained then. Because you have no idea what I could do to you, do you?”

  “Demonspawn scum,” Airell growled, a barely contained sneer hidden beneath the veneer of congeniality he’d pasted on his face for the benefit of the crowd.

  “I could have simply marched in here and squeezed your heart until it popped,” Vaughn went on. “Ripped out your veins. Even broken your bones, one by one. With a thought.” He tapped his head. “With. A. Thought.”

  Airell’s throat constricted.

  “But I didn’t because I won’t stoop to your level and that of our ancestors, in flesh or spirit. I’m going to do this right.”

  He stepped back and nodded to his mother.

  Askata gestured toward the two guards who had previously been headed toward Vaughn. “Piaz and Omo,” Askata said, “please escort Lord Airell to the dungeons and place him under constant guard.”

  Piaz bowed immediately to Askata. “Of course, Lady Regent,” he said.

  The guards bound Airell’s hands behind his back and led him away.

  Vaughn jerked his head slightly at Danton, who followed the guards.

  Once Airell had been taken back into the palace, Askata turned to address Vaughn. “Lord Teyrnon,” she said, her voice carrying across the square. “Welcome home.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Love-Beams

  Driskell stood in the middle of the enemy camp, surrounded by soldiers.

  Soldiers eating. Soldiers sharpening blades. Soldiers arguing, talking, and laughing.

  He was struck by the uniformity of their home region. They were mostly Setanan. A few Fuilynian faces. No Fereharians. No Donians or Venetians that he saw. The United Setanan was supposed to be just that—an army of combined forces between the seven regions to deal with external threats or further expand the Empire, when the king, ostensibly, deemed it time.

  This division had obviously been formed specifically to deal not with external threats, but an internal one.

  With sweaty hands and a pounding heart, he expanded his bubble farther, encompassing all the soldiers in the immediate vicinity—a dozen or so sitting around a cookfire, eating their midday meal.

  He’d done this going on ten or eleven times today so far. Yasril, the poor man, had been holding Driskell’s clammy hand for hours.

  Yasril hadn’t complained. Well, he hadn’t said much of anything, considering people could still hear them, despite both of them being invisible. Instead, he’d followed Driskell around as he found groups of soldiers who were not preoccupied.

  Driskell took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Those bloodbane out in the forest, he inserted casually into a natural break in the conversation, as though he himself were part of it. Even though they couldn’t “hear” the actual word
s, the general idea of it would bleed through.

  That was the idea, anyway.

  They sure make me nervous. As he thought it, he exuded a slight feeling of agitation. A trick he and Huiel had been working on—making sure to include the feeling along with the thought.

  Several of the dozen soldiers sitting around the cookfire shifted and looked around nervously, which was Driskell’s cue that his influence was doing something.

  Gods, I hope the commander knows what he’s doing. What if they lose control?

  No one started talking about bloodbane, but a general sense of unease began to radiate from the group.

  How could they even think of using such creatures, anyway? Is it right to loose monsters on a civilian population? Will they do the same to my hometown if we do something to upset them?

  All were tidbits of conversations Yasril had overheard among the soldiers on one of his many excursions into the camp to spy for Tanuac.

  Many of the soldiers were now looking in the direction of the forest, where most of the bloodbane were being gathered. No one said anything for a few moments, and then nervous conversation started again.

  As the last time he had expanded his bubble, Driskell started to feel dizzy. He’d expended more aether today than he had in a short time before. Huiel had warned him not to overdo it. He probably was on the edge of that.

  He let the bubble go, nodded to Yasril, and pointed toward Marakyn with his free hand. Time to go. This wasn’t the first trip they had taken into the enemy camp, trying to slowly build up a sense of unease, restlessness—possibly even mutiny.

  He had to admit, he was relieved to be done for the day. This was always a terrifying experience.

  They wound their way silently through the camp, avoiding the more traveled paths lest they accidentally bump into someone.

  They had almost reached the edge of the camp when a red-faced, mustached officer came barreling backward out of a tent along the path, shouting at someone else inside.

  Right into Driskell and Yasril.

  Driskell was knocked backward, and Yasril tried desperately to keep his grip on Driskell’s sweaty hand, but it slipped away as Driskell went sprawling on the ground.

  Panicked, Driskell scanned the area frantically, looking for some sign that Yasril was still there, but the officer had turned to see whom he had bumped into before Yasril could have taken any action.

  “I’m so sorry, I—” He blinked, then his eyes swept over Driskell. “Who are you?”

  Driskell’s mind whirled. His deep brown skin marked him as obviously out of place in the camp. There were no Donians among the Setanan troops in this army. “A-A messenger.” Driskell stuttered, rising to his feet.

  A young, clean-shaven soldier turned onto the path and stopped when he came upon the scene.

  Driskell’s eyes darted to the younger soldier and then back to the mustached officer. He took two careful steps back. “From, um, Marakyn.” Driskell tried to reinforce his words with aether, but his bubble kept popping.

  The mustached officer narrowed his eyes at Driskell and took a step toward him. “Is that so? Well, then. Let me escort you to the commander, and you can give him your message.”

  Driskell backed away. “Uh, no, I’ve already delivered it. I’m just going to—”

  The officer jerked his head toward the younger soldier, and together they grabbed him, immobilizing his arms with their bodies.

  Driskell struggled in vain. Let me go! he tried to scream at them, but the only thing he succeeded in doing was making his head swim.

  He gave up, stomach in his throat, and let them lead him away.

  The officer brought him to the center of the camp, where there was a large tent in the middle surrounded by several smaller tents. He halted outside the larger tent and spoke quietly to the two guards outside while Driskell fought his increasing anxiety and tried to appear calm. Maybe he could really play like he was a messenger. Maybe if he could convince them, they’d let him go. He burned aether again, the low-level he reserved for constant enhancement of himself.

  “You may enter,” one of the guards said. He stood aside to allow the officer and Driskell into the tent. The younger soldier sketched a quick bow to the officer and went his own way, while the officer drove him inside from behind.

  Driskell blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lesser light.

  Across the tent from him, bent over a large table surrounded by other officers, was not Bherg, but a broad-shouldered, burly Setanan man with a pock-marked and scarred face. When the mustached officer and Driskell entered, the man straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back. “Treybon,” he said, nodding to the officer. His voice was a smooth tenor, a startling contrast to his rather fierce outward appearance. “What is this?”

  “A Donian spy, Commander,” the officer named Treybon said without hesitation. “I found him skulking about the outskirts of the camp.”

  Driskell glanced around and swallowed. Every eye was trained on him. None of them looked friendly. “I’m not a spy,” he tried. “I have a message.” He burned a little extra aether and slowly expanded his bubble.

  The commander raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Why was I not informed that a messenger had arrived, then?”

  Driskell’s heart sank, and he cast about for some reply. “Where is Holiness Bherg?” he asked.

  “Bherg is on his way back to Weylyn City,” the man said. “I am Commander Gered.”

  That was…interesting news. Had Bherg been relieved of duty because of his bungling of the battle priests? Had they sent the priests back to the city, too, now that they were useless?

  Commander Gered was tapping his right index finger on the table, watching Driskell.

  Driskell continued expanding his bubble, not too fast, not too desperate, just an easy increase of aether, bit by bit, until it encompassed the entire table and Gered behind. Then he, just as slowly, withdrew the aether, until it was as low of a burn as his personal enhancement, but leaving the bubble intact.

  Phew. He’d done it before, but never under such pressure.

  “Forgive me, Commander,” he said. “Might I ask what happened to Bherg? Was he relieved of duty?” I’m safe, he projected into his bubble. I’m a friend. You can tell me.

  Commander Gered hesitated. It was a hesitation Driskell was coming to associate with his magic doing something. “Yes,” Gered said at last.

  Several heads swiveled in Gered’s direction, not a few eyebrows raised.

  Nerves skittered across Driskell like rats on a corpse. His bubble shrank a bit, but he steadied it. I’m safe, he projected again, though he wasn’t sure if it was for his own benefit at this point or Gered’s. I’m a friend. You can trust me.

  One of the other officers at the table stirred. “If he’s a messenger, where is his message?”

  I’m a friend, Driskell thought again. You can trust me. “My message is verbal,” he said. “I-I need to speak to Commander Gered alone.” He was improvising now, his only thought being that if he could get everyone else away, he might have a chance to escape. He wasn’t brawny, but he could sprint. If Yasril were anywhere nearby, the man could grab him, and they could sneak out.

  “Why are you wasting words with a spy, Commander?” the officer pressed. “Execute him or torture him—but have done with it so we can get back to the matter at hand.”

  No, I’m not a spy! I’m a friend. You can trust me.

  At that moment, a foot soldier skirted into the tent, over to Gered’s side, and whispered something in his ear.

  Gered nodded, his face giving away nothing of what he had been told, and the soldier left. “What is your message, Dal? You can speak it now, or not at all.”

  Driskell’s mind whirred. “I’ve come to beg you to reconsider using bloodbane on Marakyn. Setting a hoard of monsters on a city of innocents is an extreme measure.” I’m a friend. You can trust me.

  Gered hesitated. “There are no innocents in Maraky
n.”

  He hadn’t denied it. Oh, gods, he hadn’t denied it. Was that their plan? The way they’d take Marakyn? What an awful, despicable—

  “Not least of all, you, Dal Driskell.”

  He’d been recognized. Panic squeezed his chest, and the bubble popped.

  It’s fine, he assured himself. It doesn’t matter. Surely, the commander wouldn’t think that Tanuac would have sent his attaché as a spy. He gained control and expanded the bubble again, a bit too rapidly—but stabilized it at the end. It doesn’t matter, he thought at Gered. I’m still a friend.

  “I cannot imagine that Tanuac would have sent his attaché,” Gered began, and Driskell’s heart lifted, “as a simple messenger.”

  As quick as it had soared, his heart crashed.

  “I wonder,” Gered said, tapping his chin, “how badly Tanuac wants you back?”

  Oh, no. He struggled to maintain the bubble. He had to get out of here. I’m a friend, he projected desperately, burning aether at far too quick a rate. You can trust me.

  Another officer spoke. “I imagine if he doesn’t return, Tanuac might be rather put out.”

  Gods help me, Driskell prayed to no one in particular. What he would give right now to be a moonblood, able to disappear, or a fireblood, to set something on fire as a distraction, or…

  “But would he be put out enough to do something rash? And if so, is that to our benefit or detriment?”

  “Worth considering further,” the officer said.

  Driskell focused on the nameless officer instead.

  I’m a friend, he projected at the officer. Let me go. “I can assure you,” Driskell said to him, instead of the commander. “Tanuac has half a dozen other clerks who could take my place.”

  The officer nodded sagely. “He has a point, Commander. He’s merely a glorified clerk.”

  Gered frowned. “Hmm,” he said again. “But if that’s true, then Tanuac certainly won’t mind if we dispose of him to be on the safe side.”

  Driskell’s breath caught in his throat. No, you definitely don’t want to do that. He was starting to feel dizzy.