Lord of the White Hell Book One lotwh-1

by Ginn Hale

  "It's from dancing, I think."

  "Maybe. Or you might have picked up more from Master Ignacio than you think. Rein Firaj to a stop and have him stand at attention while you pick a few of those apples."

  Kiram followed Javier's instructions. He had a little difficulty keeping Firaj from grazing but at last succeeded and picked four apples from an overhanging branch.

  "At the end of the ride you should give him an apple."

  "Would you like one?"

  Javier nodded. "Hand it to me though, don't throw it. Horses can spook if there are things flying around behind their heads."

  Kiram did as he was instructed and Javier peeled the red skin from one of the apples with his penknife. Kiram was impressed with how quickly and cleanly he did it. He wondered if an affinity for carving ran in Javier's family.

  "Has Fedeles ever shown you any of his carvings?" Kiram asked.

  "Carvings?" Javier frowned. "He carves?"

  "He said he did. He showed me several figures cut into trees near the stream."

  "Do you mean all those birds and that little man picking his nose that looks just like Holy Father Habalan?" Javier asked.

  "I thought he looked something like Holy Father Habalan too," Kiram admitted.

  Javier didn't look amused. "Fedeles didn't carve that or any of the others. They were here when we arrived at the Academy three years ago. He must be playing some kind of joke on you." Javier cut a wedge out of his apple and handed the piece to Kiram.

  "What's wrong with him?" That wasn't quite what Kiram wanted to know, but he didn't think Javier would answer him honestly if he asked whether Fedeles was getting worse.

  "I told you, he's cursed." Javier stared out into the deep blue shadows of the orchard.

  "But cursed how? I mean, do you know what this curse does?" Kiram took a bite of his apple. A sharp, fragrant taste filled his mouth. He guessed that most people would have preferred something sweeter, but he liked the edge to the flavor.

  "The curse burns into your body like a fever and fills your head with nightmares," Javier said softly. "At first you hear screams but they sound like they're far away and they don't come often. You start hearing them more in the evenings, especially when you're lying in bed just on the verge of falling asleep. You get stomach aches and strange, piercing pains. You begin to dream of dying. Night after night you dream of iron pikes splitting up through your body, and the weight of your own flesh driving you further down onto them. Soon the dreams spread into your waking hours. The pain becomes unceasing and all you can hear are screams, hundreds of screams. You can't speak. You can't eat. You can hardly think. All you want is to die."

  Javier shoved his hair back from his face, his expression strangely tense. "It came for me when I was seven. It would have killed me if my father hadn't passed the white hell to me then. He saved my life but it left him no defense of his own. The curse took him last year and now it's killing Fedeles."

  Javier glanced up at Kiram. His dark eyes were too bright and though he had shed no tears, Kiram thought he must have come close. Javier made an effort at one of his unconcerned smiles.

  "The thing is, I can save Fedeles. I know how. All I have to do is give the white hell to him. It will burn the curse out of him."

  "But then you wouldn't have any protection," Kiram stated.

  Javier nodded and dropped his gaze from Kiram.

  "I love Fedeles but I'm just too much of a pig to die like that, even for him." Javier hurled his peeled apple away violently. A jay shrieked as the apple struck a tree branch. Firaj gave a slight shake of his head but didn't seem alarmed by the sudden motion or noise.

  They traveled a little further in silence, crossing a second bridge over the stream and wandering slowly back towards the academy. Kiram wished he could think of something to say but there were no words he knew of that could make any of what Javier had described seem less terrible.

  For the first time in his life he wondered what he would really be willing to sacrifice for his own brother or sisters. Would he be willing to suffer and die the way Javier described for any one of them? He loved his family and yet he didn't know that he would be able to make that sacrifice.

  At last, Javier glanced to Kiram.

  He said, "You're slouching again."

  Kiram straightened.

  "And don't look so serious."

  "What do you mean, don't look serious? That curse is terrible!"

  "Believe me, I know. But many things are terrible. You can't let yourself brood on them, especially not the things you can't change."

  "But maybe this curse could be changed. Maybe there's a solution that-"

  "That no one but you has thought of?" Javier's expression was one of amused skepticism. Kiram suddenly realized just how arrogant the suggestion had been. "This curse has hunted my family for eighteen years. Trust me, any solution you could imagine, some desperate Tornesal has already attempted. There have been dozens of exorcisms and pilgrimages. Vows, penances, bribes. The cathedral my uncle funded is still being built, and he's been dead seventeen years now. Before my mother died there were shifts of priests who prayed day and night for her safety. There have been blood sacrifices and even black magic. So far only Scholar Donamillo's mechanical cures have had any effect at all. And it's still no real salvation."

  Kiram frowned down at the reins in his hands. He had nothing to offer. Still he hated the thought of simply giving up.

  "And in any case, this is my concern. Not yours," Javier told him firmly. "You have your own problems to worry about."

  "I don't have any problems as dangerous as yours."

  "You may think so, but Master Ignacio might just kill you if you don't improve your riding. So I'd concentrate on that if I were you." Javier gave him one of his hard smiles.

  Kiram let the subject drop. He knew Javier didn't want to discuss the curse and wouldn't be goaded. At the same time it wasn't as if Kiram could simply forget that some strange, cruel curse was hunting his upperclassman's family.

  He couldn't help but wonder what had caused the curse. What gave it its power, and most importantly what could destroy it? The fact that a mechanism had impacted it-at least protected Fedeles to some extent-made Kiram think that perhaps he could find some solution. Perhaps Scholar Donamillo could use his help if Kiram could approach him in the right way.

  "More jays," Javier commented.

  Kiram watched them pass overhead. He forced his attention back to his riding lesson, keeping his weight down in his saddle and working into the rhythm of Firaj's long gait. Javier corrected his posture once more as they continued the ride.

  When they reached the academy, bright golden sunlight illuminated the grounds and the low boom of the first bell reverberated from the chapel. None of the house servants were anywhere in sight and most of the grooms were out exercising the horses.

  It was quiet in the stable. Javier showed Kiram how to brush a horse down and reminded him to offer Firaj the apple he'd picked. Firaj seemed to appreciate the treat. Though Kiram wasn't good at grooming him, Firaj endured his ministrations patiently.

  "It's good to touch him. He needs to grow accustomed to your physical presence as much as you need to get used to his," Javier commented as Kiram finished brushing Firaj's coat. "When you're comfortable together it will be easier to trust each other."

  Kiram glanced back. Javier returned his gaze for a moment and then reached out and tucked a curl of Kiram's hair back behind his ear.

  "You'll get a little less afraid of him as time goes on," Javier said. "And he'll want to please you more and more."

  Kiram knew Javier was taking advantage of the moment but this once Kiram didn't admonish him. He didn't know if it was the gentleness of Javier's expression or simply that he seemed to deserve some kind of comfort.

  Kiram knew that if Javier pulled him close, kissed him, or even slipped his strong hands into his clothes, he would have allowed it. More than allowed it.

  But Javier only sm
iled and then turned away to the door of the stall.

  "Wash up before breakfast," Javier told him and then he left the stable. Kiram was both irritated and relieved. Then Firaj lifted his tail and dropped a tremendous pile of pungent excrement only inches from Kiram's boot.

  "You beast," Kiram muttered to the horse. It seemed to him that Firaj looked quite pleased with himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next month Kiram kept so busy that he could hardly remember a time when he didn't ride, train, or spend long hours poring over medical papers that Scholar Donamillo handed him in response to his many questions about Fedeles' condition.

  As crisp fall winds set in and the days grew shorter and the nights long and cold, Kiram began to see certain advances.

  He became familiar with Firaj's sense of humor, as well as the gelding's favorite places to be brushed, his preferences in apples, and the astonishing amount of filth he could accumulate in his hooves.

  Kiram's riding skills improved as well, though it was not always obvious in Master Ignacio's classes. At times when Master Ignacio sneered at him and snapped criticisms ceaselessly, Kiram's nervousness undermined him. He tended to confuse the command for a trot with that of a prance. At least once a week he and Firaj were out of step with the other riders.

  But now Kiram didn't allow small mistakes to panic him. That was the one thing he had learned from observing Javier handle Lunaluz when they went riding together each morning. No matter what happened, whether Lunaluz was obstinate or nervous, Javier remained calm and firm. His collected manner always settled his mount.

  That knowledge served Kiram well. He controlled Firaj with more and more consistency each day. None of the few errors he made enraged Master Ignacio enough to strike him again.

  He improved in battle practice as well.

  When pitted against his fellow second-year students his focus rarely wavered and his speed gave him an edge. He managed to best both Ollivar and Ladislo two falls out of three. The week after that, Kiram even managed to pin Chilla and then Nestor, which resulted in Nestor calling him 'a wily beast' and another exchange of coins between Elezar and Javier.

  Then they'd advanced from hand-to-hand combat to duels with wooden swords. Javier made every motion look easy, when he demonstrated the sword stances. In reality Kiram discovered that it was a challenge just to make himself aim his blows at his opponent's body and not his blade. The whole idea of it-that he was teaching himself to drive a sword into another man's heart-appalled him. Kiram couldn't delude himself about the nature of swordplay. Men trained with swords for the single purpose of hardening their bodies and minds to the cruelty of killing.

  Kiram hated the idea, particularly when his opponent was Nestor.

  He simply could not take any pleasure in exploiting Nestor's poor vision to murder him, not even when the mortal wound was no more than a tap across his chest or neck. Nestor unfailingly complimented him on his strikes and that only made Kiram more uncomfortable.

  At times Kiram found it frightening to watch Javier and Elezar demonstrate techniques. They were both skilled with blades and though they were friends, when they fought neither of them held back. They had both drawn blood on more than one occasion.

  Elezar struck with so much force that he often cracked the tip off of Javier's wooden blade. He charged in with a shout and always took the offensive. His raw, muscular power drove his attacks. Sometimes Kiram thought nothing could wear Elezar down.

  "He's like a bull," Nestor whispered. "You hit him and it just makes him madder."

  Kiram nodded, though his attention was focused on Javier.

  Unlike Elezar, he rarely relied on sheer muscle and he never overextended his thrusts. He looked so relaxed and his smile was so assured that his hundreds of parries and strikes seemed effortless. But when Kiram really studied Javier's form he could see that Javier was constantly working at Elezar's defenses. He was constantly moving around him, testing and pushing him. Javier was a master of footwork. He never stood still, but always edged subtly in and out of Elezar's strike range.

  He drew Elezar out, slowly wearing him down with precise blow after blow. He didn't underestimate Elezar's speed the way Atreau often did. Instead he restrained himself, patiently whittling away at Elezar's energy, waiting for him to get clumsy and make a mistake.

  When that moment came, Javier's entire demeanor changed. His smile dropped. He lunged past Elezar's wide swing and punched his cracked blade into the thick padding that protected Elezar's heart. Almost instantly he jerked back out of Elezar's reach. In that moment, just as he pulled back from the killing strike all of the strain of the fight showed in his face. Javier looked both sick and stricken. Then he was smiling again.

  "You're dead, my friend," Javier told Elezar.

  "You barely…" Elezar looked down at the chest of his padded jacket. A thick white lump of wool protruded from the gash in the canvas. "Well, damn it. Who's going wed those six pregnant whores now?"

  "I'm sure they'll manage to find some other dolt," Javier replied.

  Nestor leaned a little closer to Kiram and whispered, "Mother would kill Elezar if that really happened."

  "How do you know it hasn't?"

  "Oh, I'd know," Nestor assured him and Kiram took his word for it. After all, Nestor had a knack for collecting all the whispers and rumors that circulated around the academy. He had kept Kiram apprised of all of the love letters that Atreau received, as well as the rumors of Holy Father Habalan's affair with a milkmaid.

  And surprisingly, he was also one of the only reliable sources that Kiram could find for information concerning the curse that plagued the Tornesal family.

  Later, when they sat side by side in the library studying, Kiram decided Nestor's insights might be just as good as anyone else's.

  Kiram had expected to uncover dozens of references to the curse in academy diaries and biographies. Certainly every other minor affliction of the powerful Tornesal family had been noted. Letters and journals abounded with mentions of fever passions, congenital cruelty, and bloodlust. But until the most recent writings there wasn't a single suggestion of a curse destroying the Tornesals.

  The curse was apparently a new phenomenon. According to Nestor, it had first struck one of Javier's uncles eighteen years ago. The curse never afflicted the Sagradas or the Fueres despite the fact that they had intermarried with the Tornesals extensively. At the same time it hunted down inheriting women like Fedeles' mother even when they had married out of the family.

  "It's like it knows which of them could inherit the dukedom and goes after them. Doesn't that seem suspicious?" Kiram studied a painting of the Tornesal family tree. The vast branches narrowed to a single line bearing Javier's name.

  "Maybe the dukedom is what really makes them Tornesals. You know, like cured ham and goose fat makes a prince's pie. Without them, it's just bean stew in a crust." Nestor turned a page of his own book and Kiram caught sight of the title: One Thousand Royal Feasts and Banquets. "I overheard Holy Father Habalan saying that if Javier would only turn the power of the white hell over to the royal bishop then the curse would be lifted."

  "What do you think he meant by that exactly?" Kiram wondered. "It sounds almost like blackmail or a threat."

  Nestor blanched and then shook his head.

  "I'm sure that's not the way he meant it. He probably thinks, like a lot of people do, that the white hell has gotten a taste for Tornesal blood and now it wants them all."

  "Why would it wait eighty-two years for that?"

  "Maybe Tornesals are an acquired taste, like tomatoes," Nestor had replied. "I used to hate tomatoes when I was young but just yesterday I had one and I thought it didn't taste so bad."

  "I'll take that into consideration," Kiram replied.

  "Doesn't sound likely?" Nestor asked.

  "Not from what I've read."

  Kiram had dredged through hundreds of Cadeleonian texts searching for mentions of curses. All the descriptions bore strikin
g similarities. They were dated from the time of King Nazario Sagrada or earlier, and curses were always described as Haldiim in origin. They were always acts of retaliation for a wrong done.

  One fragile text described how the souls of two murdered Haldiim children had become a curse and ravaged the house and lands of the baron who killed them until a Haldiim witch-Kiram recognized the description as a Bahiim-had trapped the curse and bound its fury into the wood of a great oak tree where it could do no more harm.

  The mention of a Bahiim dispelling the curse had offered Kiram some hope that he could, at last, get accurate information regarding curses. He'd immediately written to his uncle's husband, Alizadeh, to ask what he knew, but he'd not yet received a response.

  The next two weeks offered Kiram no time at all to contemplate curses or even mechanisms. In addition to riding with Javier, constant battle training, and learning the formal rules of engagement, his time had recently been taken up by fittings for the leather cuirass, byrnie, and gauntlets he would be wearing for his fights; he was also drilling on horseback for the opening parade through the city of Zancoda.

  The last two weeks before the tournament the majority of scholars had given up their class times to allow Master Ignacio to keep the students in constant training. Only Scholar Blasio and Scholar Donamillo refused. Scholar Blasio gave extensive lectures, but also tolerated a great deal of napping. Kiram guessed that it was just to spite Master Ignacio and he warmed to Scholar Blasio more for it.

  However the last week before the autumn tournament Scholar Donamillo also excused his class. Though he asked Kiram to help him carry several books from his classroom to the infirmary.

  The air smelled of liniment and sweat. Dozens of young men sprawled across the medical cots. Most sported ugly bruises and cuts or wore bandages over their various sprains. Many seemed to be sleeping, though one fourth- year student looked perfectly healthy and seemed to be using the time to read. Kiram felt a little awed that Donamillo had managed to teach his classes for so long and still treat all the bumped, bruised, and sprained youths in his infirmary.