See the Curse
She was there from the beginning, the Cloak-Weaver, and she is not of our kind. Some say she was set to guard a treasure from the moment of world’s making, and others whisper that she knew of her husband long before his arrival, and loved him in advance. By her will is the fence about Dorael set, long it will endure, lo! even unto the coming of doom.
—Anonymous, The Song of Nightingales
Just after dawn another ravine sheltered us for a short trembling while. Arn held a small flask of blue glass—Yedras’s, and thrust upon her with haste—to my lips. The now-familiar heat of sitheviel filled my numb mouth, along with the incongruous taste of midsummer flowers.
“Drink,” she said harshly, as if she thought I might refuse.
I was vaguely surprised to find I still had teeth, let alone fingers and feet. Idra’s voice—whether hers in truth or merely my own wisdom speaking in a tone it knew I would not gainsay—was right, such a weirding was dangerous not only to those it had killed but its wielder as well. A diaphanous amazement that I was still alive after using something so far beyond my strength or skill lay over strengthening dawnlight like finespun linen, turning everything indistinct until the liquid reached my chest and heat spread in concentric rings, nailing me once more into my physical self.
“Easy, fourfoot cousin,” Yedras crooned to a head-hanging mare, stroking her wet lathered neck. “All is well. All will be well, let me help you.”
“He was not left alone.” Elak’s paleness made the snow seem blushing. His eyes were live coals; his hands squeezed into fists, relaxed, and repeated their clenching. Of all the wolves of Naras he was the quietest, but now his baritone held an axe’s edge. “I recognized some. Haralt, and Tyony’s son Aesimir, and Bjornhalt of Vestalt… he tore their guts out.”
Eol gazed at the northern end of the bailkah. The leather over his swordhilt was scorched, the gem peering free, and his dark hair rumpled wildly in every direction. Even the Elder were snow-spattered and gaunt. Our mounts’ ribs stood out—a single ride like that will melt flesh from man and horse both no matter their might.
How were we still alive? I could not tell, and still do not know.
Daerith sang softly to Aeredh’s mount. The beast shuddered, great twitches passing in waves through his body.
“I saw them too.” Soren swallowed convulsively. “But I could not… could not recognize…”
A second swallow of sitheviel followed the first, and I choked as a coppery tang pervaded it. Fortunately I did not spray the precious cordial over my shieldmaid; Aeredh held me upright and his left hand stroked the shadowmantle’s shoulder, as if I were a maddened animal needing calming as well.
“Sol?” Arn lowered the flask, peering anxiously at me. Her spear’s blunt end was driven deep into snow beside her; the weapon listed slightly, a few fingerwidths off true. “You… are you hurt?”
My face felt odd. I lifted a hand, staring dreamily; it seemed strange to have such an appendage. I had felt this way before, just after my first blooding when the weirding began to accelerate within me, but never so strongly.
Seidhrmay well eat its bearer whole, if an act well beyond one’s ken is attempted.
When I touched my upper lip, something crackled under my fingertips. I scrubbed a little harder, and realized it was dried blood.
“He is at peace now.” Eol’s tone was harsh, too loud in snowbound stillness. The Taurain’s breath soughed over the ravine’s lips, a hollow fluting noise full of menace underlaid with soft stealthy trickling. He took a deep breath; when he spoke next, ’twas in southron. “And we are not safe in Dorael yet.”
When I rubbed my fingers together, bloodcrust flaked free. But it was wrong—some of the fluid was still tacky-wet, and bore an odd tinge. I thought it a trick of the light at first.
“Sol?” Arn persisted. “Where are you hurt?”
I am not, I wanted to say, only weary. But the strange sensation was all over my face. The blood had trickled from my eyes and nose; the sides of my neck held thread-thin drying rivulets escaped from my ears. Arn used a corner of her mantle and a bit of snow to wipe, as if tending a food-eager child. Though she sought to be gentle, my skin still stung under her ministrations. Aeredh held me upright, and continued stroking my shoulder.
My shieldmaid offered the blue glass flask once more; I shook my head. Ribbon and horsetail clouds, already shrinking as the eastron horizon lightened, presaged a clear day. It was no longer so cold. In fact, a prickle touched the curve of my lower back, though no sweat rose.
“Blood,” I whispered, and Arneior nodded, capping the flask with a savage twist.
“Idra would scold you.” A tendril of coppery hair fell in her face. Even her freckles were pale at the moment. “But perhaps that Elder thing is useful after all.”
How could I explain? “It was not the Jewel.” My tongue would not seat itself quite properly. The pain in my chest eased somewhat, though the burning did not fully abate; perhaps it was the sitheviel. Fresh strength and sense crept into my limbs, aided by a deep, soft jolt of vital force from Aeredh’s grasp. I did not know how he had so much strength left, to share such a measure. “Ah.” I found my mother-language again. “It was… was not the… Something is happening to me, Arn.”
“Gelad, Efain.” Each name held the snap of command; Eol straightened, and perhaps it was fatigue, but he looked at least ten years older than he had yestereve. There were new lines graven upon his face, spreading from the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth. “Take our backtrail for a distance, see what you can smell. The rest of you, aid our Elder friends with the horses, and keep hand to hilt.” He turned upon his bootheel, and his gaze lighted upon me.
I felt it like a blow. All my inner senses were cringe-sensitive.
But when he halted next to Arn, it was Aeredh he addressed. “How fares our lady?” As if he had forgotten I spoke the Old Tongue, or as if he could not bear to address me directly.
“Somewhat stunned, I think.”Aeredh’s hand halted its steady motion as I sought to straighten, to use my own legs. “She was not touched, the bleeding is… otherwise. Eol—”
“I shall scout ahead.”With that, the heir to Naras would have stalked away, but Arneior coughed, a harsh, ratcheting sound.
“Son of Tharos.” She all but spat the words. “We must speak of summat.”
“Must we?” He had already turned his back to my shieldmaid, and his profile was severe as his father’s. “I am concerned with our survival at the moment, and little else.”
“Eol.” The word was a husk of itself, and I suppressed the harsh tickle in my throat. “Your father. He—”
“Now you see the curse.” Clipped and cold, Eol pronounced each syllable very clearly indeed. “But have no fear, Solveig. Should I or any of my companions fall to it, the others will dispatch him as required.”
He set off, and the shaggy inkmass of the change swallowed him before he had gone two steps. The wolf—lean and dark, its fur damp and its ears flattened—bounded up the side of the bailkah, vanishing over the top.
“Sheepshit,” Arn muttered, and I heartily agreed.
“’Tis merely his grief,” Aeredh said, softly. “Take what rest you may. We have a few moments—most of the surviving orukhar now fear us, but that will not slow them forever.”
As if to underscore the point, a faint chill howl rose to the north. It was not a hunting-horn of the Enemy’s troops, for all it bore a hateful edge. No metallic instrument could loose such a cry; there was a tinge of agonized flesh to it, long-dead but still suffering. I tasted rancid ash and the copper of powdered blood, the sitheviel’s heat upon my tongue pushed aside by chill grave-dirt.
“Lich,” I whispered, dryly. One of the horses sidled uneasily, too exhausted to rear, shy, or otherwise protest.
“Nathlàs.” Aeredh’s arm tightened about my shoulders, and sudden tension turned him into one of Laeliquaende’s pale stone statues. “At least one of the Seven, quite probably more. We should not linger, for even in daylight they ride swift indeed.”