The Blood Curse (8 page)

Harkeld ignored the shapeshifter. Another lantern hung outside the stables, a blurry beacon. He headed for it through the rain. The ankle-deep mud was as sloppy as gruel, stinking of horse manure and rotting straw.

Fingers gripped his elbow, swinging him round. “It’s you who’s dogshit.”

Harkeld lifted his upper lip in a sneer and used his palace voice, disdainful and cold: “Release me, witch.”

Petrus sneered back and obeyed, shoving Harkeld so hard that he lost his balance and sprawled in the mud.

Harkeld had an instant of shock—he was a prince; no one shoved him—before fierce, joyous rage ignited in his chest. He surged to his feet, hands clenched, teeth bared in a snarl. He was going to beat the crap out of this deceitful, lying mage. He was going to beat the crap out of him and
enjoy
it.

A hard fist struck his jaw, snapping his head back, sending him sprawling again. Harkeld hissed a curse and rolled, shook his head to clear it, scrambled to hands and knees. He dimly saw the dark blur of Petrus’s raised arm. Knuckles bounced off his cheek, a glancing blow.

Harkeld shoved to his feet, a roar in his throat, and grabbed Petrus in a bear hug, grappling with the mage, forcing him back. He’d wrestled hundreds of times, thousands of times, but never with such rage before, his muscles bunched with fury, his teeth bared. If he could get Petrus on the ground he was going to rip his head off—

Petrus shifted his weight, twisted, hooked a foot around Harkeld’s ankle.

They fell together, rolling in the mud, wrestling for dominance, grunting, snarling. Harkeld heaved himself on top. He laid a forearm across Petrus’s throat and pressed with his full weight, forcing the shapeshifter’s head back, choking him.

Petrus’s knee took him in the groin, hard enough to make him yelp. Harkeld jerked back. They rolled again in the mud. This time, when they stopped, he was on the bottom. Fingers fisted in his hair, yanked his head back. Rain stung his eyes. The stink of mud and horseshit filled his mouth and nose.

“You’re not better than us. You’re
one of us
.” The words were punctuated by a knee in his belly that made the breath whoosh from his lungs. “Innis saved your rutting
life
.” The knee dug painfully into his belly again. “You should be
thanking
her, not treating her as if she’s—”

Harkeld bucked his hips and twisted, dislodging Petrus. They rolled again, grappling awkwardly. Harkeld tried to catch his breath, tried to gain dominance.

They thudded hard against the stable wall. Lantern-light fell across them. Petrus’s face was inches from his. The mage looked almost beast-like in his rage, lips pulled back from his teeth. “You might be a prince, but you are
worthless
.” The words hissed into his face. “We should have killed you that first night in Osgaard. Taken your hands and blood and left the rest of you to
rot
.” Petrus head-butted him, cracking their foreheads together.

For an instant, Harkeld saw only darkness—then the stableyard snapped back into focus: lantern-light, rain, fetid mud. He shoved away from the stable wall, trying to force Petrus onto his back. Petrus shoved back. Teeth snapped together half an inch from Harkeld’s ear.

Harkeld kneed Petrus in the genitals.

The mage gave a strangled cry and released him.

Harkeld rolled away. He scrambled to hands and knees, panting. Petrus’s savage, unrestrained fury was startling.
He’s as angry as I am. He wouldn’t mind killing me.

And yet Petrus had saved his life more than once.

He looked at Petrus, doubled over in the mud. Even as he watched, the mage straightened. Dimly, Harkeld saw the gleam of bared teeth.

Harkeld hurriedly stood. He raised his fists, dodging Petrus’s first blow and taking the second in the mouth. He lurched back several steps, tasting blood.

“Arrogant whoreson, looking down your nose at us.” Petrus swung again.

Harkeld sidestepped and punched, connecting solidly with the mage’s cheekbone.

Petrus retreated a few steps, shaking his head, panting. “We risk our lives for you, and you treat us like we’re less than human.”

Harkeld spat blood. “I was right, wasn’t I?” His voice was as fierce as Petrus’s. “You
are
less than human. Stinking, lying
witches
.”

Petrus snarled and charged.

Harkeld hit him hard. The mage’s nose broke beneath his fist in a spray of blood. Petrus lurched back, lost his balance, fell.

Harkeld bent, grabbed a handful of wet, muddy hair, and hauled the mage’s head up until it was inches from his own. “You
lied to me
.”

“We were trying to save your life.” Petrus jerked his head, spraying blood, trying to break free.

Harkeld tightened his grip on the shapeshifter’s hair. “You rutting
lied—
”

Petrus kicked him solidly in the chest.

Harkeld heard the crack of ribs breaking. He released Petrus and sat down hard in the mud. A sound between a scream and a groan choked in his throat.

Petrus rolled over and struggled to one elbow, panting, his face a mask of blood, then staggered to his feet. “That was for breaking Innis’s jaw.” His voice was thick with rage, thick with blood. “And this is for almost killing her in Lundegaard. Whoreson.” He kicked Harkeld’s chest again.

Agony knifed through him, but Harkeld had no breath to scream. Pain blanked his mind. For several seconds, the world vanished. When it returned, he became aware that Petrus had lurched back half a dozen paces. The mage sat heavily in the mud and cupped his hands over his nose.

Harkeld cradled his ribs, struggling to breathe.

Long minutes passed. Rain streamed down. The pain didn’t ease. Waves of agony expanded in his chest. Each breath stabbed. Getting to his feet, walking back to the taproom, were impossible tasks. He imagined pushing open the door, imagined the mages turning their heads to look at him, imagined the humiliation of asking one of the healers to mend his ribs.

He glared in Petrus’s direction, hating him. Hatred was good, rage was good; it would give him the strength to climb to his feet. But his rage kept sliding away, swamped by the sheer agony of breathing.

The lantern cast enough light for Harkeld to see that Petrus had his hands cupped over his nose. Healing himself.

He knew better than to ask Petrus to heal him. In fact, it would be prudent to leave before Petrus got to his feet again.

If I can stand.

Harkeld levered himself slowly to his knees, and halted there, dizzy with pain, wheezing shallowly.

Petrus turned his head. His eyes glittered darkly. “Not so full of yourself are you, now?”

Harkeld didn’t bother to reply. He concentrated on breathing.

Petrus wiped blood and mud and rain from his face, and carefully felt his nose. “You broke my nose, whoreson.”

“Good.” Harkeld tried to stand. For a sickening moment he thought he was going to pass out. Or vomit. Or both. He lurched back down to his knees, eyes squeezed shut.
Breathe. Slowly
.

He heard a sucking sound in the mud—footsteps—and opened his eyes.

Petrus crouched in front of him. “If you set yourself on fire, I wouldn’t piss on you to put you out. You’re an arrogant, foul-tempered son of a whore. We risk our lives for you, we
die
for you, and you treat us like dogshit.”

“You are dogshit,” Harkeld said. His voice was faint, wheezing. “Lying to me, laughing at me behind my back.”

“Laughing? None of us were laughing. You think we
wanted
to be Justen? You think we
enjoyed
it?” Petrus spat into the mud. “We did it to protect you, whoreson, All-Mother only knows why. Should have just let you die. Would have been a lot easier.”

Harkeld shut his eyes again.
Breathe slowly
.

“Treat Innis or Justen like that again and I’ll cursed well break
all
your ribs. Do you understand me?”

Harkeld didn’t reply. It took all his effort to breathe.

“Do you understand me?” A hard finger stabbed against his sternum.

It was one agony too much. His chest was on fire. Harkeld bent over, retching.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“W
ELL
?” K
AREL DEMANDED,
trying to keep impatience from his voice. He wanted to grab Solveig by the shoulders and shake the man’s words from him.

“No covered carts passed through the eastern gate this afternoon, sir.”

Karel turned on his heel, surveying what he could see of the town. Its name was Groderling. Torches burned in brackets, lighting some of the doorways. Wooden galleries loomed above, some dark, some warm with lamplight.

They were close to the princess. He knew it. Only an hour or two behind. Was she even in this town? Had the Fithians chosen to stay here for the night?

The gelding he’d been riding snuffled his shoulder with a dusty muzzle and blew out a weary breath. Karel patted the animal’s neck.

“Maybe they’re still here?” The voice was Prince Tomas’s.

Karel glanced at him. In the flickering torchlight, the prince’s scar stood out, bisecting his cheek.

“Maybe.”

Hooves clattered as another armsman rode up. Arvid. “A covered cart passed through the western gate a couple of hours ago, sir.”

“West?” Karel frowned. “How many men?”

“The guard couldn’t remember exactly. A handful, he said.”

“The canopy was brown?”

“Yes, sir.”

West? Why west now, when the Fithians had been heading east and north for three days?

The last armsman he’d sent out returned. Bjarne. “Nothing at the northern gate, sir.”

“West,” Prince Tomas said, bafflement in his voice. “Why west?”

“Could be they’re meeting someone.” More Fithians? “A couple of hours ago, Arvid?”

“Yes, sir.”

Two hours. He was two hours behind the princess. Karel wanted to throw himself on his horse and gallop after her.

Prudence. Rest the men. Rest the horses.

“We’ll stay here the night,” Karel said. “Leave before dawn. Catch them tomorrow.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

H
E MUST HAVE
passed out. He woke lying on his back, rain pattering on his face. Petrus crouched alongside him, his face shadowed, his wet hair silver in the lantern-light.

Harkeld blinked rain from his eyes. Breathing was easier. His ribs still hurt, but nothing like they had before. He tasted blood in his mouth, and bile. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched his chest. Pain, but not agony. “You mended them?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Some.” Petrus rose to his feet. “Do the rest yourself. You’re a healer.”

“Healer?” Harkeld pushed slowly up to sit. “No, I’m not.”

“Only healers can share dreams.”

Harkeld’s head jerked back. He stared up at Petrus. “
What
did you say?”

The mage scowled at him.

“Share dreams? What do you mean, share dreams?” But Harkeld knew the answer, even as he asked. The dreams he’d had in Ankeny, the ones with Innis in them. The private, intimate dreams. They’d been
shared
.

“Didn’t Rand tell you?”

Anger swelled in Harkeld’s chest. The pain in his ribs seemed to fade. “No.”

Petrus shrugged and turned towards the taproom. “Ask him.”

Harkeld lurched to his knees, grabbed Petrus’s leather belt, and hauled. The mage sat down hard in the mud. He scrambled round to face Harkeld, fury stark on his face. “Want more broken ribs, whoreson?”

Harkeld matched him glare for glare. Cursed mages, never telling him the whole truth. “Sharing dreams,” he said. “
Tell me
.”

Petrus hissed between his teeth. “I’m not one of your bondservants, to be ordered about like a slave.”

Harkeld wrestled with his temper for several seconds, clenched his jaw, unclenched it, and said, “Please.”

For a long moment, Petrus didn’t react. Then he snorted. “Remembered your manners, have you?”

Harkeld gritted his teeth and waited.

Petrus looked away. He scowled at the lantern hanging by the taproom door. “Healers sometimes share dreams. It’s extremely rare. One healer has to be exceptionally strong, like Innis. The other...” He shrugged. “Maybe you have a little healing magic, maybe a lot. But if you’re sharing dreams with her, you
are
a healer.” He pushed to his feet and headed for the taproom again.