The Curse Giver

by Dora Machado

  Members of the highborn houses crowded the offering hall, reclining on the cushioned benches, enjoying Teos’s hospitality. The bulk of Teos’s Chosen mingled with their guests in what amounted to a vast highborn family reunion, a gathering of relatives and interests. Servants circulated among the crowd, bearing heaping trays of steaming foods and full silver goblets. Ascended played an exquisite melody on the fire-breathing drums and bells of Teos, an ancient legacy, the most unique—not to mention dangerous—musical instruments in the history of the land.

  With the single exception of the glorious music, one could have mistaken the gathering for yet another banquet. That is, if one ignored the three striking figures sitting on the high thrones straddling the dais before Suriek’s magnificent shrine. They puffed the multicolored airs from the long hoses connected to the witching fire flaming in the crystal hearth floating like an immense chandelier above them.

  Two women and a man comprised Teos’s high council this year. The privilege was often reserved for the oldest and most experienced among the Chosen. Terrachio, the single man in the group, had been sitting on the council for a decade. Laurentia, the blind elder, had been appointed only three years ago. Hato had to look twice when he recognized the newest member of the trio. He had never considered Khalia as an old woman, and yet there she was, sitting among the elders, looking stunning, cold and dangerous on her throne.

  Every eye in the room was on his lord as Brennus made his way towards the dais. Whispers, gasps and murmurs protested the inauspicious arrival and yet the crowd parted to allow his lord’s passage. It was as if he was covered with the oozing pox. Bren didn’t take time for greetings. Why should he when every hand in the room shied away from his?

  Hato followed behind his lord. He caught a glimpse of the lord and lady of Barahone ahead. Bausto’s nose dove into his goblet in an effort to avoid Hato’s eyes, but Ernilda’s stare followed Brennus all the way to the dais. Riva’s leer beamed on Hato as he passed. Brazen and unapologetic, the king’s smile was threat, reminder and message.

  Bren took a knee before the thrones. “On behalf of Laonia, I’ve come to pay tribute and affirm our charter.”

  A plume of smoke escaped from Terrachio’s thin lips. “Will the treasury ratify the offering?”

  An attendant stepped forth and handed a scroll to Khalia, the only one of the three whose eyes seemed clear enough to be able to read the document. A quiver of Khalia’s brow betrayed her otherwise expressionless face. “Laonia’s offering is more than acceptable to the treasury. In fact, it appears Laonia has turned in a surplus which will be credited towards next year’s offering.”

  Hushed murmurs rose from the surprised crowd. Laonia’s success was an unexpected development. Khalia didn’t look happy about it. Riva’s smile never wavered, but Hato could swear the king’s gaze had lost some of its luster.

  “You may pay homage to the Triad,” Terrachio said.

  Brennus rose and walked beneath the thrones towards Suriek’s shrine. Hato exhaled the breath he had been holding. The offering had been accepted. All his lord had to do now was renew the charter and get out.

  Bren stumbled on his way up the stairs. The hall grew silent as his steps waned. The smile returned to King Riva’s eyes when Bren stopped. His body swayed but his firmly planted legs held.

  “He’s too sick,” someone whispered near Hato. “He can’t do it.”

  “It’s the blight of his house,” someone else said. “It won’t let him.”

  Hato fought an urge to go to his lord’s aid. The code required Bren to renew the charter on his own. Khalia’s scalding stare reminded him of that.

  “He’s about done,” Riva said, too close to Hato’s ear. “This is a perfect time for you to declare your new allegiance.”

  It was Hato’s last chance to weave himself into the fabric of a new world. It was his only opportunity to save not just himself, but Laonia, if it survived.

  What good was loyalty when duty required treason?

  He stepped forward and cleared his throat. “You can do it, lad,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Go on, my lord. Take a drink. You can do it.”

  Bren’s pale face swiveled in Hato’s direction. His stare was dull and disoriented. His hands kept raking his ears. But Hato’s voice must have broken through, because Bren fumbled with the flask Hato had tucked into his belt. Fighting the tremors shaking his hands, he uncorked the flash and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply, tipping the flask until he had consumed the last drops of the strength-giving potion.

  “Go on, my lord,” Hato said. “Finish what you came to do. For the house of Uras. For Laonia.”

  “For the Free Territories!” Ernilda cried out and to Hato’s shock, several voices in the room echoed her call.

  “Keep the faith!”

  “Keep the freedom!”

  “Down with bullies!”

  “Out with tyrants!”

  In all his years at the offering, Hato had never seen a reaction such as this from his highborn peers. Sure, he had witnessed popular revolts against one ruler or another occasionally, but highborn were better known for quiet political posturing than for free expression.

  Moreover, in accordance with Teos and the code, highborn tended to consistently favor accommodation over defiance and peace over strife. A quick side glance revealed that Riva didn’t appreciate this latest development. The smile was gone, replaced by the stern frown he wielded to convey his displeasure.

  The unexpected cheers did more than stun Hato. They seemed to startle Bren into action. Tossing the empty flask aside, he stumbled forward, gaining assurance with every step.

  It was no less than a miracle. Hato had seen four other brave men succumb to the curse. He knew the ague was not something any man could defeat. And yet Bren was fighting it, doing what his father and siblings had not been able to do, overcoming it somehow to complete his duty.

  Bren was mumbling as he approached the gates of Suriek’s shrine. The massive folio lay opened atop the gilded stand. He was laughing as he reached out for the elegant quill. Laughing!

  Whether they were dazzled by Bren’s courage, inspired by his audacity, or just amused by his determination, Hato would never know; but most in the stiffed-lipped highborn crowd were still cheering, encouraging his lord to finish the feat.

  Nothing engaged the highborn as surely as a game of odds. Nothing thrilled them more than the underdog’s desperate plight. But Hato could sense that the cursed Lord of Laonia had managed to do more than thrill and entertain this day: For a brief moment in time, Bren had managed to unite the highborn with his bold defiance of a virulent curse and a vicious tyrant.

  Chapter Seventy-three

  LUSIELLE RUSHED OFF THE TOLONIAN BARGE filled with a sense of urgency. Her time on the barge had been productive. Not only had she made tremendous strides in understanding the connections tugging at her and Bren’s lives, but maybe—just maybe—the Lady of Tolone would listen to her. Lusielle knew that even if the lady made the unlikely about-face Laonia needed, Tolone’s desertion was hardly enough to put a stop to Riva’s grand plans. She was just hoping to buy Laonia time to mount an effective defense.

  “This way,” Tatyene said, leading Lusielle and her two companions towards Laonia’s hall. Tatyene was in a bad mood. She had wanted to go with her lady to the offering, but Lusielle had demanded otherwise. The Lady of Tolone could get on and off the island easily on account of the ruling ring she wore. Without a ruling ring, Lusielle needed Tatyene. In her capacity as her lady’s bodyguard, Tatyene was in possession of a rare admittance writ bearing the seals of both Tolone and Teos, authorizing her not only access, but also authority to lead Tolone’s retinue in and out of Teos.

  The fastidious guards at the gate took their time reviewing Tatyene’s writ. Lusielle tapped her fingers on her forearm, unable to contain her impatience.

  “Did you spot your lord’s barge in port?” she whispered.

  Severo gestured towards the blue
slate tower of a tall building, where a high flame burned brightly. “It burns only if my lord is in residence.”

  Lusielle’s heart walloped at the sight.

  It was only after Tatyene signed her name on the ledger that the meticulous guards returned her writ and called for the required escort. A host of six golden warriors lined up at either side of Lusielle’s party and led them up the gleaming cobblestone lane, crisscrossed by the complex maze of steep streets, staircases and convoluted alleyways composing Teos proper.

  Lusielle gawked at the sheer height of the impressive buildings rising around her. Every building was an ode to the gods. Every fountain was a poem to beauty and harmony. Alabaster gutters ran with fresh water, cascading from above like tumbling streams. Elegant bridges spanned from one building to the next, daring archways and high-flying cloisters defying the eye.

  Teos was like a different realm, ethereal in appearance but solid in construction, striking in design, bountiful with exquisite detail, and rich beyond belief. She felt very small walking these streets, awed and impressed but also very far removed from any part of her capable of confidence, let alone Strength.

  Tatyene’s sour mood changed little as they turned away from the bustle of the busy main way and followed a crooked, narrow street which offered less traffic but more stairs. Elfu was not happy, either, but Severo looked more relaxed. He had been in constant vigilance on the Tolonian barge, but now that they were on the sacred island, safeguarded by Teos’s protection, he had reason to feel at ease. The most dangerous part of their journey was over.

  The Thousand Gods smiled from above as Lusielle and her group strode under a particularly beautiful bridge. Because it wasn’t as high as some of the others, she had a chance to admire the amazing sculptures decorating the bridge’s underside. In a dazzling display, a maelstrom of gods swirled about the Triad, a sea of contorting bodies calling the imagination to put a name to each god.

  Lusielle was just wondering if the Odd God’s featureless face was among the throng, when the metal bars of a heavy gate dropped from the bridge and slammed down in front of her. She had no time to think. Grabbing her by the arm, Severo lunged in the opposite direction. A similar gate blocked the way and corralled them like chickens in a coup.

  What happened next, Lusielle couldn’t explain. A hollow thud marked the moment in which Severo fell, stricken from behind by a hefty baton out of the belt of one of the guards escorting them. She turned to see Elfu, wrestling with three golden warriors on the ground, and Tatyene, standing away from the fray next to a small door, which was opening. The last thing her mind noted was Tatyene’s smug grin.

  Lusielle heard a shout, her voice, a warning too late to matter. The cobblestones hit hard against her face. Feet. Ropes. Pain. A trail of blood, marking a body’s route. Burlap, too tight against her nose and face. A gag on top of that. Horror was the only emotion she could feel. This was Teos. Peace was supposed to rule here. Violence like this wasn’t supposed to happen.

  How could this be happening?

  Strong arms gripped Lusielle in a forceful embrace and dragged her from the cobblestones. A door opened. Grunts. Groans. Murmurs. Terse commands. Steps echoing within walls; stairs; a long stretch; more doors, keys clanging, then another door closing, before her hip collided with a hard surface.

  The quiet hiss of an igniting torch followed the strike of a pair of flints. Then the gag and the burlap were gone and the wavering yellow light illuminated an old terror.

  “Do you remember me?” Orell’s grinning face was like a brick blow to the head. “I see you do. And now I’m going to make sure you never forget me again.”

  Chapter Seventy-four

  BREN CLUTCHED THE UNWIELDY QUILL WITH a white-knuckled grip and waited until all the letters on the pages before him stopped quivering. He felt a bit like a drunk, teetering on the edge between consciousness and oblivion. The sacred inkpot tipped over when he dipped the quill too forcefully, but he didn’t care. The heat of Lusielle’s potion warmed his gut and strengthened his senses. The ague’s shrieks were growing dimmer and the light reflecting on the swirling ink didn’t pain his eyes as it had done just moments before.

  “Here I am, Suriek, heavenly wench,” he murmured, squinting over the massive page. “I made it, in spite of your neglect. I’m here, to honor your lame attempt at peace, your damn code.” He ran his thumb down the page until he found the line above his name. “Did you really think it would work forever? Did you really think this fake arrangement was bound to spare your children’s blood?”

  He swallowed a bitter cackle and stilled his hand by resting the quill’s point above the empty line. “Do you want me?” he whispered. “Have me. But leave Laonia alone—you bullying harlot—and get to work. This is your damn mess.”

  By the time he imprinted his seal and his signature on the page, the potion had done its job. His hands were steady and his eyesight had grown keen. He gave the Goddess a mocking bow and strode down the stairs on sturdy legs. He felt light, liberated from a heavy load.

  Khalia and the others called a break and retreated from the thrones. Bren was surprised. A number of highborn met him at the bottom of the steps, wrestling with each other in order to shake his hand. The moment was as strange as it was awkward. Fleeing his peers, he made his way to a smiling Hato, who made no effort to hide his pride.

  “Well done, my lord.”

  “Now we need to find Lusielle.”

  Riva blocked Bren’s path and raised his goblet. “To fading heroes and waning fools.”

  “Get out of my way,” Bren muttered.

  “Why did you come?” Riva said. “Why ruin the tribute for everyone?”

  “It was my birthright to come, my duty.”

  “Your birthright?” Riva laughed. “Do Laonia a favor. Go die your awful death far away and be done with it. We’re all weary of your tragedy. We’re all tired of your sad, pathetic story.”

  Bren had to make a huge effort not to clobber the man. Hato was looking a lot less reluctant to keep himself in check.

  “I heard you made me an uninvited visit,” Riva said. “It’s a pity you didn’t come to see me. I have just the right accommodations for the likes of you.”

  “It was easy,” Bren said. “It was fun.”

  “Your father taught you very little sense.”

  “My father taught me to tell truth from falsehood, friendship from deceit. He taught me to defend Laonia from the ambitions of greedy bastards like you.”

  “I heard the old dog died in agony.” Riva leered. “I’m glad he got what he deserved.”

  Bren lunged. Riva jerked, spilling his wine.

  Hato caught Bren and shoved him back. “Not here, my lord.”

  A crowd gathered around.

  “You two are making a scene,” a flustered Bausto said, “in the White Temple, no less.”

  Ernilda joined her husband. “What’s the matter?”

  Riva wiped the wine from his robes and smiled. “I was just extending an invitation to the lord Brennus to come to my kingdom and enjoy my hospitality.”

  “An invitation which I politely declined,” Bren said.

  “Pity.” Riva shook his head. “Negotiation is the way of peace and peace, as you know, is the way of Teos and the code. You won’t last too much longer, Brennus. Word is that the only reason you’re alive is because of your baseborn witch’s potions. There’ll be no more of that for you now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bren said.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Riva said.

  “Heard what?”

  “That the woman died, that your remedy mixer jumped off Khalia’s galley. I heard she screamed as the yearlings tore her apart. I heard she fed them well.”

  Bren had a vision of his clawed fingers, plucking Riva’s eyes from his skull; of Riva’s twisted entrails, entangled around his fist as he ripped them out of his gut; of Riva’s tongue, skewered in his blade and unable to tell more lies. Fear chilled his belly when
he met Ernilda’s unguarded eyes. She shook her head sadly.

  Bren might have landed more than a few accurate blows, because when he next knew, he had Riva’s blood on his knuckles and shreds of fine fabric between his fingers. Hato and some other men were dragging him out of the temple, but he caught a glimpse of Riva’s furious face, of the bruises swelling his once distinguished nose, of the empty space in between the broken teeth. Turd-eating maggot. To say that Lusielle was dead ….

  The world around him sputtered. He fought the ague’s madness as hard as he fought the men trying to restrain him. Didn’t they understand? He had to go. He had to find Lusielle.

  Cobblestones rushed before his eyes. Feet clattered on crowded streets. A fighting dog growled at him, rattling its chains as it lunged. Bren recognized the violence in the beast’s wild stare, the brute’s rage burning in his veins. Gates screeched and slammed. Blue slate flared with wrath’s searing blaze. It was chaos back at Laonia’s hall. Pharseus was icing his knuckles.

  “Is it true?” Bren demanded.

  “It appears that it might be the case,” a sorrowful Hato said. “I’m trying to—”

  A golden butterfly fluttered before Bren’s eyes, wings shimmering with delicate sparks. Bren couldn’t tell if the butterfly was real or imagined, if it was part of the madness swallowing him. Shoving Pharseus aside, he staggered, trailing the exquisite creature all the way to the window. It hovered there, inviting him with the soft wave of her wings to follow. But when he reached out, the butterfly disappeared with a sudden puff. It was gone, just like Lusielle.

  “You can’t give up, my lord,” Hato was saying. “There’s more that needs to be done….”

  What else mattered?

  Bren wanted to cry. Only he didn’t know how. He had forgotten to cry on a day where he wanted to bleed a torrent of tears.

  “The women,” Hato was saying. “We tested them. Remember? My lord? Are you listening to me?”