The Curse Giver

by Dora Machado

  What if he had seen through the injustice that had befallen her? What if he had been the only person—highborn or not—willing to help her in the face of that injustice?

  The risks were too many to ignore and the danger was too real to forget, but the Lord of Laonia had saved her life and even as she fled him, she didn’t have to join the ranks of the ungrateful.

  Lusielle retraced her steps and rummaged through the desk. Although there was no parchment in the drawer, she found a quill and a little pot of ink. She jotted down a few words on her unlikely page and then made for the door.

  She slipped out of the chamber into the corridor. She had no idea which way to go, but she had to find a way out of the seed house. Voices and lively music echoed from below. A carved stone banister overlooked the main hall. She peeked between the railings.

  The Lord Brennus sat on a high-backed chair next to the Lady of Tolone across from a fire roaring in the massive hearth. He sipped from a gilded horn, listening to the lady’s chatter but staring at the fire with a sullen expression.

  Lusielle could tell that he had recently arrived from whatever foray he had undertaken as his boots were wet and muddy. He was still wearing his greaves and his muscled breastplates, impressive leather-and-bronze chest armor strapped at the shoulders and embossed with swirling vines.

  The music began. The tall, gaunt man who had accompanied the lord during their trip came into the chamber and joined some of the warriors who had ridden with them on the way to Tolone. She recognized their faces from her journey’s hazy memories.

  Other people loitered in the great hall, the lady’s servants and retainers, talking, gaming and eating from the trays on the tables. The lady’s fierce-looking bodyguard stood behind her chair. Even the guards wearing Tolone’s colors seemed to linger in the hall, until a couple of them got up and headed for the stairs, reminding each other loudly that it was time to make their rounds.

  Lusielle froze as the guards mounted the first few steps. She wasn’t sure, but she thought that the lady had spotted her, hiding behind the railings.

  Without delay, the lady rose to her feet and announced that she was going to dance in ringing tones. Every eye in the room fell on the stunning woman, including those of the guards, who paused on the stairs to watch their mistress.

  Lusielle crept down the hallway. She didn’t really trust the Lady of Tolone or anyone else for that matter, but she was determined not to waste her best chance to escape.

  Chapter Seven

  HATO SIPPED HIS WINE WITH THE same lack of enthusiasm his young lord showed for his drink. Bren was a better man than his brothers, more disciplined, less impetuous, surprisingly honorable at times and equally skilled with his sword and his judgment. The house of Uras had been ruled well by Bren.

  It was a shame his chances were so poor. Hato would have liked to see at least one of his lords beat the odds.

  Hato didn’t like what he saw in his lord’s dark gaze tonight. Anger was a fickle emotion and the slightest trace of reluctance could destroy even the best of men. But Bren had a reason to be angry, as their trip to meet with the moneylenders hadn’t gone well. Laonia’s credit was strained and no more aid would be forthcoming to pay the tribute this year. It all bode badly for his lord, especially when mixed with the stubborn streak that had doomed so many of his kin.

  It bode badly for Hato as well. By birth and occupation, Hato’s fate was linked to the house he served. What was good for his lord was good for him. What troubled his lord equally worried Hato. That included Tolone.

  It was time to act.

  He got up from his stool and bowed before Eleanor. “May I see it, my lady?”

  “Again?” Eleanor’s brow rose sharply. “You’ve asked to see it every single time you’ve visited here.”

  “Indulge an old collector, my lady. Your library is a marvel, one of the last great collections in the Free Territories. And your illustrated version of The Tale … it’s magnificent.”

  “You’d do well to say yes, and quickly.” Bren nudged Eleanor. “The scent of old parchment and leather is like a drug to Hato. He might start drooling on your floors if you don’t consent.”

  “What a horrid prospect.” Eleanor laughed. “By all means, my lord. Tatyene here will take you to the library. But you shall not linger there for too long. The entertainment is about to begin.”

  “Obliged.” Hato bowed again and followed Tatyene out of the hall, down the long corridor, past the guard and to the gilded double doors that opened to reveal Tolone’s true treasure—Tolone’s library.

  Tolone’s library doubled as the lady’s office. It wasn’t a huge room like the massive libraries of yesteryear, but it was adequate. A somber collection of oil portraits hung on one of the walls. The orderly arrangement of dark and severely bearded elders stood in contrast to the lady’s own bright and lively portrait. Three tall, colored glass windows brightened the far wall, astonishing works of art forming a colorful rosette displaying the peacock’s feather, Tolone’s seal. The elaborate stained glass windows were not only gorgeous—they were expensive. Hato knew this, because in better times, the Lord of Laonia had paid for them.

  The windows framed the Lady of Tolone’s massive desk. Top to bottom shelves held the ancient book collections on one side of the room. The scrolls and manuscripts were stacked along the opposite wall around an arched niche illuminated by a Laonian shimmering stone, another gift from Bren. The exquisite volume lay on the niche’s ornate stand, an ancient, priceless and masterfully illustrated version of The Tale, which told the highborn version of the Goddess’s creation and the Triad’s rising.

  As he approached the niche, Hato set his trained face into the appropriate expression of awe and appreciation. He watched as Tatyene busied herself, straightening the piles on her mistress’s desk. It was a shame that the bodyguard had decided to stick around. Hato could have accomplished so much more without her present.

  But even though he might not be able to achieve everything he needed to do in one visit, he could still manage his most important goal of the night.

  He leaned over the volume and admired the pages’ illuminated decorations. He ogled the splendid loops and knots framing the text’s flowing calligraphy, admiring the way in which the light ignited the miniature illustrations of Suriek’s ascension, a luminous window to the world’s creation captured on fine parchment. He spotted mighty Onisious winning the race in one corner, and clever Ronerus as he quickened the Nerpes in the opposite corner. For Tatyene’s sake, Hato clucked and sighed to his heart’s content. All the while, his eyes scoured the shelves to his right, seeking out the old manuscript he needed.

  He exhaled quietly when he caught sight of the ragged leather tag dangling from the manuscript’s loose stitching. He leaned a hand on the shelf and ran his fingertips over the battered edges. It wasn’t a very thick manuscript. It wasn’t flashy or beautiful and it wasn’t decorated at all. For most people, its only importance was that it was very old.

  Not to Hato. He and his lord needed it for so much more.

  Word was that the Lady of Tolone had been selling some of the lesser known valuables from her library in order to raise cash to pay for her whims. Upon learning this, Hato had gone into a quiet panic. She could have sold the somber paintings or the extravagant windows. Instead, she chose to dismantle the library. The library!

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t studied the manuscript before. In the last few years, he had managed the feat three times and made the most out of his opportunities. But the homely manuscript was the last of its kind and the only version known to exist outside of Teos. Even if Hato knew the essence of what it contained, he—and more to the point, his lord—had to secure it.

  Music drifted from the hall.

  “The entertainment has begun,” Tatyene said. “The lady will want us there.”

  Having confirmed that the manuscript was still in the lady’s possession, a resigned Hato had to call in his gains for the night. He f
ollowed Tatyene to the hall and watched the bodyguard take her place by her mistress. Eleanor was well served by her bodyguard, who was not only skilled, cunning and attentive, but also loyal, a rare quality these days.

  Hato knew this because he had once sent one of his best operatives to entice Tatyene with a fat, juicy bribe in exchange for information about her mistress. When his agent returned, he did so in a sack, crushed like the fine ground wheat produced by the Tolonian mill that Eleanor had gifted to Tatyene on the occasion of her elevation as the lady’s protector.

  By the time Hato reclaimed his seat and his wine goblet, Tolone’s stunning mistress had taken to the floor and was dancing, teasing Bren with reckless disregard. Was the woman being cruel by being kind? Was she trying to amuse or to provoke? And who could believe that anything but kindness dwelt in that seductive smile?

  The Lady of Tolone was too shrewd of a ruler to reveal her hand, but Hato had an opinion. Far from offering hope and consolation, the Lady of Tolone was yet another burden to a hobbled mule. Resources urgently needed elsewhere ended up financing Eleanor’s quirks. True, her patience was noteworthy, but also true, Tolone would be a lesser territory without its alliance with Laonia.

  The treaty had pitched Eleanor and his lord into a flimsy boat on rocky seas. But Eleanor knew better. Hato wondered: Why did she feel a need to sway her hips and joggle her breasts before his lord like a common harlot?

  The years had worn down Hato’s soul. He was getting old. He found no pleasures in youthful joys anymore, no comforts for his aching bones. Trapped in Tolone’s landlocked seed house and away from the great river, he felt cut off and isolated, too far removed from his ancestral shores on the Lake of Tears, Laonia’s vast sea.

  And yet, he had made an oath. Only after the last man of the house of Uras was dead would Hato stop trying to defeat the curse. On a soggy night like this one, it didn’t look like it would be too long now.

  Somber thoughts. He should seek out the company of parchment and ink. They were really his better friends.

  He could have left quietly, but instead he took pity on Bren. Someone had to save his lord from Eleanor’s misguided attentions. He shuffled to his lord and bent over his ear. “Might we pretend we’re off to plot something important, my lord?”

  Bren’s smile lacked in joy what it offered in gratitude. He rose to his feet, eager to escape Eleanor. “Let’s go, old man, then you can go find your bed and I’ll go meet my fate.”

  Hato’s discreet sigh betrayed his relief. He saw no reason to put off the inevitable. Delaying would only cause further grief to a man who didn’t need more sorrow in his life.

  “Don’t go.” Eleanor entwined her arms around Bren’s stiff neck, brushing her generous breasts against his arm. “It’s early yet.”

  “What’s with you?” Bren said, disentangling from her arms. “Stop flirting with calamity.”

  “My apologies, my lord,” Eleanor said, suddenly contrite. “I was just happy to host you.”

  Alarm bells pealed in the back of Hato’s mind. What was she up to?

  As he followed his lord out of the chamber, Hato could sense the Twenty’s foul mood. They didn’t like the Lady Eleanor. They didn’t trust that she would be faithful to Bren or to Laonia. Every man in the room resented the woman almost as much as they regretted their lord’s grim fate. They were as suspect of Eleanor as Hato was.

  His lord wavered at the landing, then took on the stairs like a man stepping up to the gallows. Hato watched him go with a heavy heart. Bren carried his people’s fate on those broad shoulders. He was the last of the good men of the house of Uras, and yet he was destined to lose the little he had and die a horrible death.

  Chapter Eight

  PROPELLED BY SHEER WILL, BREN GRABBED his saddlebags and made it to the top of the stairs. His blood pounded in his temples. The scar on his face burned like a glowing chunk of coal.

  Eleanor had a way of stirring his angry blood into a rapid boil. He was tired of listening to her complaints. No matter how much he allotted to Tolone, it was never enough.

  Even so, he was used to enduring her gripes. It was her daring that perturbed him most. She should be smart enough to refrain from tempting him, but she had always been even bolder than all of her audacious ancestors put together. If it would have been in his power, he would have released her from her obligations years ago.

  He shouldn’t have come, but a man was entitled to a dry bed and a warm meal, especially if he was paying generously for it. The rainy season had made a mess of his camps and his men deserved a proper roof and a dry pallet every once in a while.

  There was also the matter of the woman. She shouldn’t have to spend her last days on a wet horse and her last nights on the soggy ground. She didn’t deserve to be murdered coldly in a back alley among paupers and whores or in the forgotten wilderness of a wind-swept ridge.

  There he went again, trying to justify the absurd delay. But he was done delaying. Eleanor’s lewd dance had stirred up his wrath. Wrath was good, the ultimate motivator. A stoked up man was the most efficient killer, a hunter worthy of Laonia and the house of Uras.

  He had to do it, now, before he changed his mind.

  He entered the room he kept at the seed house of Tolone and dropped his saddlebags by the door. The chamber was still warm, but the fire had died down into a pile of glowing embers. The chamber’s gloom matched his bleakness.

  Not for the first time, Bren wondered what type of weakness had earned his father the curse that plagued his house. He might never know, because his father was dead and so was the rest of his line.

  He wasn’t feeling very merciful tonight, a change that was bound to help. He came upon the bed in two strides. There was no point in explaining, no benefit to warning, coaxing or compelling. He was angry—at himself, at his fate. He clutched the hilt of his sword and ripped off the blankets from the bed.

  The woman was gone.

  He stared at the empty mattress in disbelief. A most improbable line was neatly written on the sheet, a flowing trail of ink on white linen.

  Whether it was kindness, courage or charity, I thank you, my lord. Farewell. L.

  Chapter Nine

  LUSIELLE STOLE THROUGH THE GARDENS UNDER the cover of darkness. The rain had sent most people indoors. The guards posted at the walls seemed few and far between. The Lady of Tolone might be fair, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned about minding her house’s safety tonight.

  Lusielle followed the wall’s perimeter. She avoided the main gates, including the back entry by the kitchen that Tatyene, the lady’s bodyguard, had mentioned. Instead, she looked for the small gate that led directly to the orchards. She knew those were common to wealthy homes because before Aponte had servants and slaves, it was she who had delivered remedies and ingredients to his highborn customers.

  She found the little gate soon enough, behind the vegetable garden. Better yet, there were no guards in sight. This was strange, but then again, Tolone had a reputation as peaceful. Perhaps the lady didn’t have any enemies to worry about. Or perhaps the huge, heavy bar on the gate was enough protection. After wrestling with it for a few long moments, she managed to lift it. She squeezed through the gate and stepped out into the night.

  The countryside was dark and drenched. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The whole world felt as if it was on edge. Quietly, she traversed the orchards and followed a small lane down the hill, stepping past the fenced pastures. A cow mooed in the distance. A herd of goats startled when she came upon them unexpectedly. Or was it the other way around? The sound of the rain falling muffled the animals’ noises, but did nothing to appease her booming heart.

  She sought the trees’ protection as soon as she could. The shepherds’ shortcut was exactly where Tatyene said it would be, but Lusielle didn’t take it. Instead, she walked on until she found a stream swelled with new rain. She trailed the creek deeper into the forest, avoiding the suggested route, tripping over the wet rocks and splashin
g in the mud.

  Her senses were on alert. She was prepared for deceit. Sure enough, she spotted the back of the first man hidden behind a dense growth of bushes at the top of the hill. He was facing away from her, stalking the trail. A second man, draped in a dark cowl, crouched next to him. Both men wore common garments, but their swords left no doubt as to their occupation.

  Lusielle suppressed a surge of panic. The men could be thieves waiting to ambush an unsuspecting victim, but the likelihood of thieves stalking a shepherd’s track was low, especially when the nearby road offered much wealthier prey.

  Nay. These men had not been randomly posted here. They were waiting for someone, most likely her.

  But why?

  She had suspected the lady’s motives in helping her from the outset. But what could a highborn lady who had it all, including riches and a reputation for fairness, gain from setting up someone as lowly and irrelevant as Lusielle?

  Lusielle cursed her ignorance, her inability to come up with a plausible explanation for the violent turn her life had taken. How was she supposed to make sense of the improbable, the impossible and the absurd?

  As she moved deeper into the wood, her eyes adjusted to the dark. By the time she crept up the hill along the creek, she spotted more men at the top of the hill. The rain’s relentless pelting helped conceal the sounds of her steps, but she feared they would hear her hammering heart as she skirted past them.

  She thought she was clear of the stalkers until a few moments later, when she saw three more men hunkering deep in the forest. Reinforcements, she decided. It seemed like such a waste to send all those warriors after someone like her. She wasn’t armed, and even if she were, she wouldn’t know how to fight them very well.

  Concealed behind a cluster of poplars, her eyes narrowed on the three men. One leaned against a tree with his eyes closed. Another one was chewing on something, perhaps a hunk of bannock. The third one traced lines on the wet ground with the point of his massive knife.