The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2)

by Ian Irvine

  His eyes met Nish’s. ‘The octopede venom makes it so much harder to bear, and I have no one to salve my ruined skin. Curse her for robbing me of Phrune as well; curse Maelys for everything.’

  Nish didn’t care how much Vivimord suffered – the more the better – but he thought it wise to hide his feelings. ‘I’m sure the old healer can soothe –’

  ‘No woman can ease my pain!’ He pressed the fang wound again, gasped, ‘Blood!’ and turned away.

  Nish forgot him instantly, for he was still thinking about Maelys. After escaping Vivimord’s enchantment she must have killed an octopede, whatever that was, torn out its fang and tracked Vivimord all the way up to the obelisk – to save him, Nish? Was there nothing she could not do? She put his own resolve, his own courage, in the shade.

  I can’t fight him, Nish thought despairingly. I haven’t got the strength any more. He’d lost the moral courage that had previously sustained him, some time during the decade of his imprisonment, and no matter how much he fought, no matter how many times he struggled to the surface, hopelessness always pulled him under again. Like a sot trying to give up the drink, his resolve would last for a day, a week, even a month, but sooner or later his self-doubt became insurmountable and the temptation to give up, irresistible.

  Several days after his abduction he was carried from the gate onto a patch of tough blue grass between two standing stones; a third slab was precariously angled across them. They were high in a mountain range Nish did not recognise and the air was mild and dry. The peasants set him in the shade and the old woman began to change his dressings, muttering a useless healer’s charm over his hand and tcching under her breath. Nish let out a groan of misery, for he’d grown so used to her that he hardly noticed she was there.

  ‘What is it, Deliverer?’ she said quietly.

  She hadn’t spoken to him before but now he recognised her voice. She was the old healer who had helped to rally the Defiance to him, months ago. Nish could not remember her name.

  ‘I can’t do it. I’ve tried to fight Father and Vivimord, but I fail every time. Even that victory I had over Father’s army months ago was a lie. He let me win, just to undermine me even further. I can’t fight on; I’ve got nothing left.’

  Her eyes were clouded yet he felt that she saw him clearly. She looked over her shoulder, laid her seamed hand upon his brow and said quietly, ‘You must fight him, for the world needs you and only you can save it. Gather your strength, and I’ll help you when I can.’

  Nish couldn’t speak; the offer was as extraordinary as it was unexpected, and absurd. The healer was a spry old thing but she couldn’t be far off eighty. She could not take on the mighty, any more than he could.

  ‘I have a lover younger than you,’ she said with an impish smile. ‘Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do; don’t even think it.’

  He remembered the smile. ‘You were the seer who touched me that day after we escaped from the labyrinth below Tifferfyte. You helped to form the Defiance.’

  ‘Indeed I did; my name is Tulitine, and without me there would have been no Defiance, for I read you and certified that you were indeed the son of the God-Emperor. And I convinced the people to rally to you.’

  ‘In Monkshart’s name,’ he said bitterly. ‘You were either his servant or his dupe.’

  ‘Always in your name, never in his. I had my doubts about Monkshart then, and subsequent events have confirmed them, but at the time there was no choice. No one else could have pulled the Defiance together in time.’

  ‘And now he’s in charge again.’

  ‘Only until you’re ready to take control, Nish. The moment you can find the strength within you, I’ll help you to bring him down.’ She looked over her shoulder again and lowered her voice. ‘And it may not be long.’

  Nish snorted. ‘That time will never come. I’m a hollow man.’

  ‘With an iron core. It’s a little rusty at the moment, a trifle bent, yet once you learn to stiffen it, as you had to during the war, it will support you even in the worst of times. Remember your past, Nish.’

  ‘That only makes it worse.’

  ‘Not the heroic past you use to beat yourself with, but the time before that, when you were a craven youth, a greedy, unpleasant young man who had to learn to reach for the heights rather than wallow in the mire. Think about that youth, and remember how he turned himself into a man, and a hero. And only then, remind yourself of your destiny, and go after it.’

  She was right. Too often Nish had compared his present tormented self to the commanding hero he’d been at the end of the war, and could only see how far he’d fallen. Yet when he thought about the youth he’d been before the hero – an unhappy prentice artificer in a distant manufactory, brutally flogged for his crimes – it was clear that he’d risen a long way. And if he’d done it once, surely he could rise again, if not by himself as he’d always tried to do in the past, refusing all aid, then with the help of those allies he had left.

  He looked up at her wrinkled old face. ‘You’re right to chide me, Lady Tulitine –’

  ‘I am no lady,’ she said with a throaty chuckle, ‘but go on.’

  ‘I will do it!’ Nish took her hand and pulled himself upright on his litter. She did not let go and, with her hand gripping his, Vivimord’s hold slipped fractionally and he felt a surge of courage.

  ‘Never again!’ he exclaimed. She raised a white eyebrow. ‘Never again will I succumb to the despair that is my enemy’s closest ally,’ Nish said fiercely. ‘I will pretend to be compliant until I’m ready to strike, but all the time I will be working to undermine Vivimord and bring him down. And when he’s gone, I will become the Deliverer, if that’s the only way to topple Father from his throne, but I’ll only do it on my terms. Yet should I succeed, I will not take his place. I dare not.’

  She looked deep into his eyes, her own cloudy eyes reading him and gauging his resolve. ‘Yes, you can do it, Nish, and you must, for the world is in terrible danger, and neither Vivimord nor your father has the power to save it. You might not succeed; the odds are against you and the fates give you just one slender chance, but you have to take it. Sleep now; gather your strength, but give no hint of your resolve. When he comes, pretend that you’re fully under his enchantment until I say otherwise.’

  ‘Where is he taking me?’

  ‘I won’t know until we get there.’

  ‘What’s happened to Flydd and Colm? And Maelys?’

  ‘They are in dire peril and I don’t know if they’ll survive. You can’t depend on them, Nish. It’s all up to you now.’

  And she went out.

  Nish was taken though the portal twice more, its entry and exit always in hot lands where the sun stood vertically at midday. They had to be in the far north of Lauralin, or whatever lands lay beyond it. He was in no hurry to reach their final destination, for whenever his prickling hand told him that Vivimord was approaching, Nish found his resolve shrinking to nothing. Only when the zealot had gone, and Tulitine was close by, could Nish find the strength to oppose him; to go on.

  Finally the portal opened on a sloping hill at the edge of a sweeping curve of rainforest, and Vivimord stepped through, grimacing and rubbing his chest. The peasants carried Nish out and Tulitine followed. Forested mountains lay all around, while down the slope a pocket handkerchief of cleared land was covered in thick, blue-green grass. A pretty town, its cottages and meeting hall made of rough-sawn timber, nestled in the curve of a stream. It was raining gently, but the rain was blood-warm; patches of mist drifted on the mountain slopes and the air was so thick with humidity that it was stifling.

  Vivimord’s face was creased with pain lines which grew deeper every day. How much longer could he endure it, Nish wondered, without Phrune to salve his terrible injuries.

  The zealot touched Nish on the forehead. ‘Rise, Deliverer. You’re safe from your father at last.’

  But not from you! ‘Where are we?’ Nish said haltingly, pretending to be grogg
y from the enchantment.

  ‘One of the few places on Santhenar where your father cannot reach. Or at least, where he has not taken the trouble to do so. The hidden land of Gendrigore.’

  ‘Gen-drig-or-ay,’ Nish repeated. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It lies at the northernmost tip of Lauralin, bracketed between the cities of Taranta and Fankster. Gendrigore is a peninsula but it might as well be an island, since the only way to reach it is via the track across the mighty mountain chain called The Spine, which separates Gendrigore from Crandor and the rest of Lauralin. This land cannot be approached by sea; it is entirely surrounded by cliffs, and the currents that race past them are impossible to navigate. It is equally difficult to come at by flappeter or air floater on account of the treacherous updraughts, the deadly storms, the exploding volcanoes and the impenetrable, clinging mists.’

  ‘It sounds like the end of the world,’ said Nish.

  ‘It’s a poor land, far from civilisation; Gendrigore has no cities to speak of, and few resources save wood and grass, neither of which can be carried out over The Spine.’

  ‘Father will still have spies and watchers here.’

  ‘A few, but it’s as good a place as any to plot the return of the Deliverer.’ He gave Nish a piercing glance.

  The healed skin on the back of Nish’s hand prickled, but the enchantment must have been weaker today, for he felt a wild urge to strike the zealot in the face. Nish restrained himself; he must give nothing away until Tulitine said the word. He trusted her, and until then he would be compliance itself.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I know my duty to the world. Father must be overthrown and I’m going to do it.’

  ‘Excellent! But you let me down in the mountain,’ said Vivimord, rubbing his chest and screwing up his face. ‘Why would you not mate with Maelys and give me what I wanted? Surely you did not find her that unpleasing?’

  Nish, resenting the implication about her, said stiffly, ‘It was Maelys who fled, not I.’

  ‘Yet I sensed reluctance in you … and when I sent young women to satisfy you months ago, you rejected them all. The Deliverer must be seen to consort with women, Cryl-Nish. Nothing else will do, in public. Yet, ah, if your private tastes lie in another direction –’

  ‘They don’t!’ snapped Nish. ‘I was grieving the loss of my beloved Irisis.’

  ‘After ten years?’ Vivimord exclaimed. ‘That is beyond the call –’

  ‘Time stood still while I was in Father’s prison. I could not truly grieve until I had my freedom, but I’m done with that now. I’ve accepted what I cannot change; it is time to live again.’

  ‘Splendid! I’m sure the young women of Gendrigore would fight to besport themselves with the Deliverer. May I send them to your bed?’

  Lust flared and, despite everything, Nish could not resist it. Besides, he reasoned, somewhat conveniently, Tulitine had told him to be compliant until she gave the word. ‘You may,’ Nish said curtly, ‘as long as they in no way resemble Irisis.’

  The days went by, Nish occupying himself with long walks through the surrounding forest and along the nearby sea cliffs, savouring the quiet and solitude. He had regained his strength and health now, save for his burned hand, which was stiff and still painful. He did not think he would ever have full use of it, and whenever Vivimord approached, the skin prickled and he felt that familiar dullness behind his temples which told him that the zealot was reinforcing his enchantment.

  Vivimord was, however, having unexpected difficulty in recruiting a new Defiance. The people of Gendrigore had welcomed Nish and Tulitine, but they were suspicious of the brooding zealot and few would listen to his rhetoric, which elsewhere Nish had seen sway multitudes, or his subtle threats. They were a peaceful folk who had little interest in the outside world. They had heard of the Deliverer, of course, but the God-Emperor did not interfere in their lives and they saw no compelling reason to march against him.

  Vivimord’s manner grew ever more agitated; there were black circles around his eyes and he was constantly touching the wound on his back, and the crisped skin of his chest and belly, as if the pain could never be assuaged.

  One night Nish was shocked out of sleep by a furious bellowing. ‘Let me go! Let me go at once, or I’m going straight to the Deliverer.’

  It was still dark, though it could not be long until dawn. He rolled onto his back, frowning. Vivimord’s voice had lacked its usual arrogance; he sounded like a man caught out and trying to bluster his way through.

  ‘We caught him blood-handed, Mayor,’ said a male voice Nish did not know. ‘It were poor Tildy the milk lass this time – throat cut, just like the other two. Swine was on his knees beside her body, catchin’ her blood as it were apumpin’ out, and arubbin’ it over his face and chest. Shoulda’ took his head clean off his shoulders. I shoulda’ done that.’

  Nish sat up, feeling sick, and began to dress. A youth had been killed on their second night here, and a young woman the night after that, and both had their throats cut. Still under the enchantment, he hadn’t thought much about the murders, but the accusation made sense. Previously, Vivimord had only been able to obtain relief from the agony of his ruined skin, seared by the touch of the tears when he’d saved Jal-Nish at the battle of Gumby Marth all those years ago, by covering it in tissue leather made from the flawless skin of a youth or a girl.

  Phrune’s blood sacrifice at the cursed flame had restored Vivimord and given him the smooth skin of a child, but only hours later Maelys had attacked him with her taphloid, striking him on the cheek and burning that egg-sized excrescence there. In his agony he’d fallen directly onto Reaper, which had blistered his chest and belly like crackling on a roast pig.

  Blood must be the only relief left to him; fresh blood. And since Phrune was no longer around to give up his own, Vivimord had been stalking the innocent and defenceless.

  Nish thrust the flap of his tent aside and strode out barefoot onto the wet grass. Two men held pitch-covered torches high, the wood flaring and spitting sparks in all directions. Another two, burly woodsmen, were dragging Vivimord behind them, tied hand and foot to a long pole. Its lower end cut through the sodden grass, leaving a wavering trail of mud in its wake. The zealot’s face was stained with red; so was his shirt, and the excrescence on his cheek was thick with smeared blood, as if he’d anointed himself there. Townsfolk and farmers ran towards them from all directions, carrying torches.

  ‘Deliverer!’ Vivimord spoke in his most commanding tone, and there was much of the Art in it too. ‘There’s been a dreadful mistake. Order them to set me free; the very future of the Defiance depends on it.’

  Nish’s hand prickled and his forebrain went as dull as if he’d been drinking all night. He could feel Vivimord’s Art beating at him, and the familiar shrinking inside. He didn’t have the strength to fight him; and besides, he now realised, the accusation had to be a terrible mistake.

  He was about to say so when Tulitine laid her hand on his left arm. ‘Don’t listen to his lies, Nish. This is the moment you have been preparing for all this time; the hour when you must take command.’ Her damp grey hair straggled about her shoulders, and she looked haggard, though her gaze was as resolute as ever.

  Barquine, the mayor, came running up with his gilded rod of office. He studied the prisoner, smacking the rod into the palm of a meaty hand. He was a cheerful, stocky, moustachioed man who had made Nish welcome from the beginning, but he did not look cheerful now.

  The pressure in Nish’s mind eased and he knew that Tulitine was right. Now was the hour, and if he could just resist Vivimord’s enchantments, the zealot was finished. I can resist him, Nish told himself. I must and I will.

  ‘Deliverer,’ Vivimord said commandingly, ‘order these simple fools to let me go. They’ve got the wrong man.’

  He must have employed more Art this time, for again Nish began to disbelieve the charges, and even Barquine seemed to be wavering. The torchbearers formed a circle around th
e prisoner on his pole, and the townsfolk a larger circle around that, frowning and muttering among themselves.

  ‘What is this?’ Barquine held his rod of office across his chest like a shield, and his knuckles were white. ‘Why have you trussed up the Deliverer’s most trusted advisor?’

  ‘We found –’ began the taller of the woodsmen.

  ‘You cannot touch me!’ hissed Vivimord. ‘I am the Deliverer’s man and he is a guest in your country; therefore the laws of Gendrigore do not apply to me. Order them to release me, Cryl-Nish.’

  It was hard to resist his entreaty; Nish felt like a sapling bending before the gale of Vivimord’s Art, and if he tried to fight it he would be torn apart. But Nish met Tulitine’s eye and remembered what she’d said about the core of steel within him; rusty on the outside but still strong at the centre. He imagined it running up his backbone, stiffening it, and spoke deliberately, precisely.

  ‘The laws apply to you if I say they do.’ Nish folded his arms across his chest and prayed for the strength to defy his enemy.

  Vivimord reeled on his pole; the bloody excrescence on his cheek swelled. ‘Deliverer!’ he said warningly.

  Tulitine touched Nish’s right shoulder; the pressure eased. ‘And I say they do!’ Nish burst out while he still had the strength to speak. ‘Mayor Barquine, I place Vivimord’s fate in Gendrigore’s hands.’

  Barquine inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘What are the facts of the matter?’ he asked the men holding the pole.

  ‘Since the second slayin’, four nights ago, we took it upon ourselves to keep watch,’ said the shorter of the original two torchbearers, a burly man clad in nothing but knee-length canvas pants. He had the muscles of a blacksmith or a bull wrestler, and his chest was covered in black hair with small charred and frizzed patches burnt through it.

  Definitely a blacksmith, Nish thought.

  ‘We heard a cry, down behind the old dairy,’ the smith went on, ‘and caught the devil at it. He had poor Tildy down, her throat cut from ear to ear, and as the innocent blood pumped from her he was arubbin’ it over his face and belly, and acryin’ out like a man doin’ the business with a woman, if you take my meaning.’