by Martha Wells
Then Ilias heard hoof beats in the street, and Cylides’ voice called out, “Gil, Irissa, are you in there?”
Irissa froze, staring toward the doorway. Ilias met Giliead’s gaze. Cylides never came into town. Because of the curse-mark, people here didn’t speak to him, barely acknowledged his existence. Karima would never send him as a messenger unless it was urgent.
Then Irissa pushed past them and ran out into the street, and they hurried after her.
Outside, Cylides was just swinging down off a horse, a mare from the Andrien stable. The crowd had backed away from him, but was still lingering close enough to listen. His face was covered with dust from the road, and streaked with tears. Irissa stopped in front of him, and said, almost calmly, “Ranior died.”
“Yes.” Cylides took a breath, looked from her to Giliead, then to Ilias. “Not long after you left. He never woke. It was quiet.”
Irissa’s jaw set, and she blinked once, then controlled it. She turned to Giliead, hard as stone. “We’re going with you. You can’t stop us.”
Giliead said, quietly, “I won’t try to stop you.”
* * *
Giliead picked up Delphian’s curse traces at the stable where he had borrowed a horse, and saw that they led out of the city toward the hills, not the coastal road. They rode all day, and camped that night high in the hills, pushing themselves and the horses until it was too dark to travel. They found a spot sheltered by trees and a big rock, and built a small fire. Macritus and Cylides had offered to come with them, but Giliead had sent them home. Karima would need someone to help her at the house, and both men had been close to Ranior for a long time.
After they camped, Ilias made himself eat some dried meat and bread, travel rations hastily collected before they had left. Giliead and Irissa just sat and stared at the fire.
Ilias knew Giliead had been waiting for this moment all his life, his first wizard hunt. Well, it was finally here, and happening in the most terrible way possible. Ilias hadn’t thought they had had any illusions about what a Chosen Vessel’s life was like -- a wizard had tried to kill Giliead when he was a boy, had been ready to kill Ilias, Irissa, Karima, everyone in the house. It had killed a friend of Ranior’s, who had been helping to guard them. After that, Ilias had counted them all as somewhat experienced. Now he was starting to realize how foolish that had been.
And he was still wondering about the panpipe, had been wondering about it on the long ride. Now he said, “Delphian didn’t curse everyone at the party, did he? They all thought he told such a wonderful poem, everybody but us. What if the poem was a curse?”
Staring bleakly at the fire, Giliead stirred. “I don’t think it worked like that. That would have been too obvious. Maybe the curse just made his poem more...attractive, to everyone who was listening. Like the wizards who make themselves beautiful, to lure people in.”
That seemed a likely curse for a mediocre poet to want. “It wouldn’t work on you, because you’re a Chosen Vessel. But why didn’t it work on me and Irissa?”
“You were sitting next to me,” Giliead said, then his expression froze. He added, “It couldn’t have been a very strong curse.”
There was an old unfunny joke, ‘Never sit next to a Chosen Vessel.’ This didn’t happen because of you, Ilias wanted to say, but couldn’t. Denying it aloud would sound like Ilias believed the opposite and was trying to convince himself otherwise.
“Why did he choose Ranior?” Irissa poked at the fire with a stick. “Why not Erinni, Bythia, Halian...” She had wept while they were riding, quietly, without any noise, the tears streaming down her face. Now in the firelight her nose was red and her eyes looked bruised.
“Something must have made Ranior suspicious.” Giliead’s voice was slow and thoughtful. “Delphian said he came from Syrneth, and Ranior’s been there several times. Maybe Delphian said something about it that Ranior knew was wrong.”
“Maybe it was because he was your father,” Ilias said. He realized a moment later, when Giliead’s shoulders tensed, that it was a mistake. But it was said now and there was no way to take it back. He rubbed his eyes, and said helplessly, “He knew you were the Chosen Vessel. Maybe Ranior was supposed to go mad and kill you.”
Giliead didn’t say anything. Irissa shook her head, and said bleakly, “It’s not your fault, Giliead. Ranior knew the risks. He was Menander’s friend long before you were Chosen. Ranior could have left us, let his family buy him out of the marriage, and gone to live somewhere else. He stayed because he wanted to be with us.”
Ilias wasn’t sure that made things any better.
* * *
The rain started before dawn the next morning. It would have been devastating if they had been trying to follow Delphian by his horse’s tracks, but it didn’t disturb the signs the curse had left. It led them further up into the hills, and in the afternoon they reached an isolated farmstead. It was just one rambling wooden house and several outbuildings, with pens and a poorly maintained garden patch.
“He went there,” Giliead said, frowning at the ground as they reined in in the muddy yard. “But I don’t think he’s there now.”
They swung down off the horses, tied them at the trough, and went to the door of the house.
It stood partly open and Giliead pushed in first, stepping sideways to give the others room to enter. Ilias pulled his hood back, shedding rainwater as he shook his head vigorously.
“Who are you?” someone called out. “What do you want here?”
Ilias looked up at the man suddenly looming over him. He lifted his chin, facing him aggressively. “To get out of the rain, what does it look like we want?”
Irissa shoved past Ilias, yanked her hood back and fixed the man with an angry glare. “Who are you?”
He stepped back, chagrinned. A woman’s presence meant that they were respectable travelers. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. We’re careful of strangers here.”
If Delphian had been here, they hadn’t been careful enough. Ilias knew isolated communities should be wary of men traveling alone, men who weren’t the traders or hunters they were accustomed to seeing. But Delphian might have used curses to ease his way.
Giliead scanned the room. There was a step up to a raised stone floor, and a fire in a center hearth banishing the damp. A half-dozen or so people sat around it on couches or stools, in various states of dampness, all staring at the newcomers. A couple of children played on the floor, and Ilias could smell wet wool and leather, and meat cooking in olive oil.
A woman, with sun-faded blond hair and a gold wrap still damp from the rain came forward, eyeing them appraisingly. She asked Irissa, “Your husbands?”
“Brothers,” Irissa corrected. She threw a look back at Giliead. “Anything?”
“He’s been in here,” Giliead said, his voice flat.
Irissa turned to the woman. “We’re looking for a poet called Delphian. He may be using another name. He was traveling from Cineth, on horseback.”
The woman smiled, and someone in the back laughed. “Oh, he’s been here, though he didn’t have a horse. He called himself Verites, and said there might be someone after him. He said he warmed the wrong bed, down in Cineth.”
Giliead stepped forward. “Did any of you touch him?” They stared, uncomprehending, and he said, “I’m Giliead of Andrien, Chosen Vessel of Cineth.” His voice turned to ice. “Did any of you touch him?”
The woman stepped back, shaken. “No, not... No. He traded a poem for food, and a room to sleep in. He told us not to tell--”
“What room?”
The others scattered out of the way as she led them to a door at the back of the house. Curious faces peered out at them from the little thatched outbuildings as the woman led them to one on the edge of the yard.
She reached for the door, and Irissa caught the back of her robe and yanked her back. The woman stumbled, staring, startled at Irissa’s determined strength. Giliead stepped up to the door, as Ilias reached for an arro
w. But Giliead shook his head. “I don’t think he’s in there.”
Giliead kicked the door and it slammed open. Ilias peered past him to see a little room, with a low bed piled with red and gold woven blankets, a basin and brazier on the floor. The brazier still had hot coals, steaming gently in the damp air. “He knew we were coming.” Giliead frowned. “Maybe he can feel us now, too.”
Ilias exchanged a worried look with Irissa. He hoped Giliead was wrong about that. She shook her head and let the woman go. “Get back inside,” Irissa told her. There was an unspoken I’ll deal with you later, in her voice.
Backing away, the woman said, “We didn’t know. I swear we didn’t know.”
As she hurried back into the main house, Giliead walked to the edge of the yard to survey the wet fields. Ilias put in, “He has to be making for the forest. It’s the only cover.”
Giliead nodded. He turned to Irissa, looking down at her, regretful and serious. “We’re close, and he must know it,” he told her. “You have to stay behind now.”
Irissa started to speak, and he added, “If it goes wrong, you’re all mother will have left. The village, everyone on the farm, the ones like Cylides who have nowhere else to go. All of it will depend on you as heir.”
She winced. After a moment, she said reluctantly, “All right, yes, you’re right.” She added, “What about Ilias?”
“I’m expendable,” Ilias said impatiently.
Giliead rounded on him so fast, Ilias skipped back a step. “That’s not funny,” Giliead snapped.
It hadn’t been a joke. But Giliead couldn’t do this alone, and Ilias didn’t think he wanted to. Ilias just stared him down, until Giliead said, “We’re wasting time.”
* * *
Ilias and Giliead walked uphill in the failing light, the rain lessening to a light drizzle. They had left the horses behind, since they could move faster through the dense forest without them. They didn’t find Delphian’s horse, but found the spot where he had hidden it, not far from the farmstead in a wet copse of trees. There had been horse dung and tracks in the high grass, though the dung had smelled odd. Ilias wasn’t sure why Delphian had bothered to hide the horse. To throw off pursuit, perhaps, but revealing that he was a poet had identified him more surely than the horse would have. Though maybe the strange smell of the dung meant the animal was ill, and he had thought the farmers would refuse to have it in their pen. Whatever the reason, the tracks only confirmed what the curse trail was telling Giliead.
It was deep twilight when Giliead stopped, and said, “There.”
Ilias saw it a heartbeat later. On the forested slope above the meadow, branches thrashed, barely visible in the dark. Something moved through the trees, something large, about half again as tall as Giliead. Ilias still couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but the night had taken on a weird hushed quality he didn’t like. It felt like the forest was holding its collective breath, avoiding the attention of the creature passing through the trees. Ilias whispered, “It’s not him. It’s a curseling. He must have sent it after us.”
Giliead nocked an arrow, frowning uncertainly into the dark. “I don’t know. There’s something about this that doesn’t--”
Then the shape broke out of the forest and headed toward them. Ilias tensed, gauging the distance, trying to get a good look at the shadowy creature-- “It’s not a curseling, it’s a man on horseback. It has to be Delphian.” He felt a flush of embarrassment, mistaking a horseman for a curseling. It didn’t reflect well on his ability to help Giliead.
But as the form moved closer, he made out more detail. He caught the gleam of metal and realized the rider wore armor. A helm and chest piece maybe, and metal bracers and shin guards, barely discernible in the bad light. “Wait, maybe it’s not Delphian.” Unless Delphian had stolen the armor in Cineth and no one had noticed the theft.
Giliead just shook his head. He lifted the bow again. Raising his voice to a shout, he hailed the rider, “Stop there! Who are you?”
The approaching figure continued toward them and Ilias couldn’t hear hoof beats, just the soft pad of something striking the grass. Giliead drew the bow, aiming toward the man. He shouted again, “Speak, or I’ll shoot!”
The wind changed and Ilias caught the smell of decay on the breeze, heavy and sickly sweet. An instinctive fear crept right up out of the wet ground and into Ilias’ bones, and he felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Since Ranior had been cursed, Ilias had felt nothing but numb despair and bitter anger; now he felt afraid. “Shoot him, Gil,” he said quietly.
Giliead let the arrow fly.
It struck the man square in the chest, the force of the powerful bow driving the arrow through the chest piece. The man jerked with an impact that should have knocked him off the horse. Then he surged forward, urging the horse into a charge.
The cold chill settled into Ilias’ stomach. He said under his breath, “At least now we’re sure it’s a curseling.” He drew his sword and tossed the scabbard aside.
Giliead nocked and fired another arrow, just as the curseling drew a short sword. And again, the arrow rocked him but didn’t knock him off the horse.
Giliead dropped the bow and drew his sword. Then the curseling was on them and Giliead dodged one way, Ilias the other. Giliead used his sword like a club, swinging it up to unseat the curseling. A man would have been flung to the ground, but this creature took the blow, swayed and was past them, leaving Giliead staggering with the force of his own momentum.
The curseling reined in and turned to come at them again. Giliead hefted the sword, making it look as if he meant to cast it. Knowing it was a ruse, Ilias backed away to give him room.
Unfortunately, the curseling must have realized it was a ruse as well. The beast made an abrupt turn and bore down on Ilias. He had a heartbeat to decide whether to dive out of the way or try to cut the curseling off the horse. He went for the cut, and stepped sideways and swung his sword up for a two-handed blow. The curseling’s short sword chopped down; it met his blade with all the power of the unnatural creature wielding it and the beast bearing down on him. Metal rang, jarred Ilias’ arm to the bone and sent his blade flying. The force of the charge should have carried the creature well past him, but the curseling reined in with superhuman strength. As Ilias spun away, a hand seized him by the hair and the back of his shirt.
His feet left the ground and with stunning force he slammed head-first into the hot sweating side of the animal. Leather scraped his chest as the curseling dragged him up over the saddlebow. The air was knocked right out of his lungs and everything went dark.
Hanging head down, Ilias came to only a few heartbeats later, saw branches fly by and knew they had just entered the forest; under the trees it was dark as the inside of barrel. Ilias’ first dazed thought was Great. Giliead is going to kill me. The curseling had one hand still knotted painfully in his hair, the other holding the reins. Even jolting like this, Ilias could tell the creature under him wasn’t a normal horse, at least not anymore; the smell was foul, like rotted meat. It plunged through the dark forest as if this was an open field in broad daylight, and its breath came in low growls. Ilias reached up under his shirt, managed to grip the hilt of the knife tucked through his belt and pull it free.
He could feel the armor plate on the curseling’s leg, and it felt more like bone than metal. Maybe that’s how he got the armor, maybe a curse grew it on him. That wasn’t a pleasant thought. Ilias knew he had one chance and instinct told him to lift the knife and drive it into the ribcage of the sweating beast instead of the rider.
It screamed and jolted sideways. The curseling let go of Ilias to grab the reins with both hands. Ilias shoved up and catapulted himself free, hit the ground and shoulder-rolled to his feet. He staggered and caught his balance, braced to move; it was so dark he could barely see the damn thing. He heard the beast plunge and scream, heard branches break as it moved further away.
Ilias tried to pace it but the creature was so fast
he lost it within moments. It’ll go back for Gil, he thought, turning back toward the open fields.
Running as fast as he could in the dark, Ilias re-traced their path, ducking half-seen branches and dodging trees. After only a few moments he heard something big moving through the forest toward him. Something big on two legs. Ilias slid to a halt and called cautiously, “Gil?”
“Ilias?” Dead leaves crunched underfoot as Giliead burst out of the brush. He grabbed Ilias by the shoulders. “You-- I--”
“I couldn’t help it, he caught me, and that horse is cursed too, it’s not-- Wait, listen.”
They both froze and faintly, in the distance, Ilias heard branches crashing in a rhythmic beat -- the curseling heading back towards open ground. Giliead swore, letting Ilias go. “Come on!”
Ilias plunged after him and they ran, barreling through the trees. They burst out of the brush and into the moonlight of the open meadow.
The curseling emerged from the trees down toward the end of the meadow, and reined in when he saw them.
“Now what?” Ilias asked, breathing hard.
“We need to get him off the damn thing, whatever it is,” Giliead muttered, studying the creature silhouetted in the dim light.
“I stabbed it. It can feel pain.” Ilias scanned the field, looking for his dropped sword, and spotted the moonlit gleam of the blade where it lay in the grass about thirty paces away.
“That helps.” Giliead started forward, lifting his sword. “Stay with me this time.”
“Really?” Ilias snapped. “I thought I’d stake myself out in the middle of the field like a stalking goat.” He wasn’t incredibly pleased with himself for his mistake either.
Giliead spared a moment to throw him an angry glare, then turned it on the waiting curseling. “We need to get him to charge us.”
Ilias didn’t think that was going to be a problem.
With a yell, Giliead plunged forward, Ilias with him. The curseling took the bait and spurred his mount forward. Giliead lifted the sword as if he meant to try another useless throw. Then at the last moment Ilias slid to a halt, waving and shouting to distract the rider and Giliead swerved in front of the horse, almost under its hooves.
