“Come on. Davin’s grave’s not going to dig itself.”
Harkeld followed the shapeshifter back through the trees. Bode was standing in a foot-deep grave, driving his shovel into the ground, tossing soil to one side. Petrus bent and picked up a shovel.
“No,” Harkeld said, taking it from him. “Go eat.”
Petrus opened his mouth to argue.
“You’re a trained healer, I’m not. Go and eat. Sleep. And then you’ll be able to help with Innis.”
Petrus closed his mouth. After a moment, he nodded and turned towards the fire.
Harkeld stepped down into the hole. Bode made room for him. In silence, they dug Davin’s grave.
T HERE WAS LITTLE talk around the campfire. The three deaths, the possibility of there being a fourth, hung over them. It was as if the night sky had substance and weight and was pressing down. Harkeld ate slowly, without appetite.
Rand clambered down from the wagon, stretched stiffly, and came across to the fire.
“How is she?” Adel asked.
Rand filled a bowl with stew. “Her skull’s in one piece again. We’ve dealt with the bleeding and the worst of the swelling. There’s a lot of bruising, though. Bad bruising. And brains are just so... intricate. Delicate.” His voice was weary, almost defeated.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Adel burst out: “All Innis did was heal his wife! Why’d he try to kill her?”
“Because that’s what they do here,” Serril said.
“But she was helping .”
Serril shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He saw a mage, so he tried to kill her. It’s what they’ve been doing here for centuries.”
Harkeld looked down at his empty bowl. Before he’d met the mages, before he’d become one himself... he would have tried to kill Innis too. The only good witch is a dead witch . It was a truth. A fact. Everyone knew that spring followed winter, that the sun always rose in the east, and that witches were evil and had to die.
“But she was helping ,” Adel persisted. “Why harm someone who’s helping you?”
“Ignorance, fear.” Serril shrugged. “They’re a dangerous combination.”
Rand nodded. “All of this...” He waved his spoon, indicating the Seven Kingdoms, the Ivek Curse. “All of this is because of those two things. Ivek was a healer. He only helped people, too. Until the purge.”
“Who is most to blame for Ivek’s curse?” Serril asked Adel. “The ignorant and fearful, who decide to hunt mages to extinction? Or the healer driven mad by the slaughter of his wife and young children?”
Harkeld put down his bowl. He’d never thought of it like that. Ivek had been a healer, a husband, a father. Victim of a terrible purge. And in revenge he’d created a purge of his own, even bloodier and more violent. It had taken three centuries for Ivek’s curse to come to fruition, but once it passed through the Seven Kingdoms, there’d be no survivors.
“The people were to blame,” Adel said.
“You won’t get folk here to agree.”
Harkeld studied his hands. The skin had grown back on his left palm, but he remembered how it had looked, remembered the blood. The blood of a Rutersvard prince, the blood of a mage. My ancestors led the purge. Rutersvards. And now I am a mage myself. Ivek had understood irony. It was why he’d crafted the anchor stones the way he had.
He closed his hands, clenched them, looked across the fire at Serril. “You could leave the curse to destroy the Seven Kingdoms.”
Serril shook his head. “The people here... they’re ignorant, not evil.”
“And no one knows exactly what the curse will do once it’s consumed the Seven Kingdoms,” the water mage, Malle, said. “It should stop advancing, but... it may not. It may poison the world.”
Rand scraped his bowl clean, put it to one side, and leaned forward. “For those of you who don’t know, the pigeon Serril caught was headed this way. Which means that somewhere between us and the anchor stone are more Fithians.”
For a
Harkeld followed the shapeshifter back through the trees. Bode was standing in a foot-deep grave, driving his shovel into the ground, tossing soil to one side. Petrus bent and picked up a shovel.
“No,” Harkeld said, taking it from him. “Go eat.”
Petrus opened his mouth to argue.
“You’re a trained healer, I’m not. Go and eat. Sleep. And then you’ll be able to help with Innis.”
Petrus closed his mouth. After a moment, he nodded and turned towards the fire.
Harkeld stepped down into the hole. Bode made room for him. In silence, they dug Davin’s grave.
T HERE WAS LITTLE talk around the campfire. The three deaths, the possibility of there being a fourth, hung over them. It was as if the night sky had substance and weight and was pressing down. Harkeld ate slowly, without appetite.
Rand clambered down from the wagon, stretched stiffly, and came across to the fire.
“How is she?” Adel asked.
Rand filled a bowl with stew. “Her skull’s in one piece again. We’ve dealt with the bleeding and the worst of the swelling. There’s a lot of bruising, though. Bad bruising. And brains are just so... intricate. Delicate.” His voice was weary, almost defeated.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Adel burst out: “All Innis did was heal his wife! Why’d he try to kill her?”
“Because that’s what they do here,” Serril said.
“But she was helping .”
Serril shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He saw a mage, so he tried to kill her. It’s what they’ve been doing here for centuries.”
Harkeld looked down at his empty bowl. Before he’d met the mages, before he’d become one himself... he would have tried to kill Innis too. The only good witch is a dead witch . It was a truth. A fact. Everyone knew that spring followed winter, that the sun always rose in the east, and that witches were evil and had to die.
“But she was helping ,” Adel persisted. “Why harm someone who’s helping you?”
“Ignorance, fear.” Serril shrugged. “They’re a dangerous combination.”
Rand nodded. “All of this...” He waved his spoon, indicating the Seven Kingdoms, the Ivek Curse. “All of this is because of those two things. Ivek was a healer. He only helped people, too. Until the purge.”
“Who is most to blame for Ivek’s curse?” Serril asked Adel. “The ignorant and fearful, who decide to hunt mages to extinction? Or the healer driven mad by the slaughter of his wife and young children?”
Harkeld put down his bowl. He’d never thought of it like that. Ivek had been a healer, a husband, a father. Victim of a terrible purge. And in revenge he’d created a purge of his own, even bloodier and more violent. It had taken three centuries for Ivek’s curse to come to fruition, but once it passed through the Seven Kingdoms, there’d be no survivors.
“The people were to blame,” Adel said.
“You won’t get folk here to agree.”
Harkeld studied his hands. The skin had grown back on his left palm, but he remembered how it had looked, remembered the blood. The blood of a Rutersvard prince, the blood of a mage. My ancestors led the purge. Rutersvards. And now I am a mage myself. Ivek had understood irony. It was why he’d crafted the anchor stones the way he had.
He closed his hands, clenched them, looked across the fire at Serril. “You could leave the curse to destroy the Seven Kingdoms.”
Serril shook his head. “The people here... they’re ignorant, not evil.”
“And no one knows exactly what the curse will do once it’s consumed the Seven Kingdoms,” the water mage, Malle, said. “It should stop advancing, but... it may not. It may poison the world.”
Rand scraped his bowl clean, put it to one side, and leaned forward. “For those of you who don’t know, the pigeon Serril caught was headed this way. Which means that somewhere between us and the anchor stone are more Fithians.”
For a
Similar Books
