The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 9: The Cursewright's Vow, Part 4

 "Very well, your highness," Ammas said with a smile he didn't have to fake, though he soon adopted a more sober expression, remembering how very deeply this concerned his client. "We spoke of incurable strains of the wolf's blood sickness."

"We did," she said uneasily.

"I mentioned werewolf offspring, and rituals."

"Yes. You assured me Tacen had not performed one on me. You were sure of that."

"I was, and I am. Do you understand why I would be so dismissive of that idea?"

"I do not, Master Cursewright."

"Because such rituals have not been seen in over three centuries. My fellowship destroyed the last known practitioners of such things during the last reign of a Malachite Emperor who was not named Deyn, the Empress Ilois Munaz V."

Carala stared at him, open-mouthed, then waved for him to continue.

Ammas drew himself up, warming a little to his subject. "They were called the Sons of the Moon, and they kept their cult on an island in the Azure Sea. They were not pirates, precisely, but they would occasionally come to the mainland in search of other men to grow their population, which they did through elaborate rites involving sacrifices to the moon Saya. They worshipped that moon as goddess and mother and sister and bride all in one. Women they would hunt and devour and . . . and use for their pleasure. They considered women unfit for their rites."

"Was a ritual of this sort performed on Tacen?" Carala asked, utterly subdued.

Ammas shook his head. "I don't know. It's possible." Ammas leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully running his fingers along the brim of his hat. Its dangling charms jingled softly against his hands. "Did Tacen bear any marks? Tattoos? Inked symbols whose meanings were strange to you?"

Carala whitened. "He had a pair of winged feet tattooed on his upper arm."

Ammas nodded, scratching behind his ear, frowning in concentration. "Is that it? Nothing on his chest? His back? Near his -- beg your pardon -- his intimate places?"

The princess's blush was immediate, but she didn't hesitate to answer. "No, nothing like that. I was relieved, actually. I had heard many tattoos were a sign of membership in a criminal gang."

Barthim snorted disgustedly. The princess looked at him, shamefaced. "I -- I meant no insult, Master -- er -- Barthim -- "

"One may ink his flesh to honor the gods as much as to dishonor them," Barthim intoned in a voice so pious it would have been funny under other circumstances. Like Casimir, Ammas had no idea whether it was meant in jest or not. He held up one hand and the bouncer nodded, smiling again.

"A gang is what that sounds like. Or perhaps the symbol of his caravan company?"

Carala's stiff pose loosened in a huge sigh of relief. "It was called Swiftfoot."

Ammas nodded. "Yes, then I'm sure that was it. Probably an old military group, retired soldiers, going into private business and keeping the symbol of their cohort." His face darkened. "This tells me Tacen was also not the subject of one of these rituals. According to all I know of them, the markings left in the course of performing them are both indelible and unmistakably large. But it also tells me that he in turn was the victim -- or accomplice -- of a werewolf who did undergo a ritual of this nature. Or the victim of a victim. And this, your highness, is where I failed you."

"How? You said yourself these rituals were lost centuries ago."

"Yes. But I still studied them. My fellowship revered knowledge and history. One could not proceed in a cursewright's studies without learning all there was to know about these creatures, how they may be cured, or killed, and where they come from. The first of them was likely a creation of the Dread Titans, born through mightier rituals than that practiced by the Sons of the Moon. I was taught the theory of these rituals. There was the possibility that they might rise up from the mists of history to infect innocents again. I simply didn't expect to see it in my lifetime."

"I still don't understand -- "

Ammas cut in gently. "In studying these theories, I also studied how such groups of werewolves behaved. They are not the same as solitary infected werewolves, or even small packs of them, and nothing like the old tribes that roamed the tundra hundreds of years ago. Each was different, with different views and notions on what their wolf's blood meant to them, from philosophies of the purity of animals to sheer religious fanaticism."

"Older gods," Carala muttered, remembering Tacen's strange discourse the night he took her maidenhead.

"Just so. But there were certain common behaviors among them. And one such common behavior was the practice of doubly infecting a new member of the cult. That pliancy I mentioned to you was vital to impressing the group's ideals on the newly turned wolf."

Carala nodded, grateful he had not mentioned the precise nature of her "double infection."

"I said to you it was the most vexing part of your case. I knew there was something unusual about it. But I never imagined it would be this, that after hundreds of years a ritual werewolf rather than an infected one would be abroad. It's an even graver threat than Tacen's actions were alone. That, however, is not for you or I to be concerned with at the moment."

"No, it isn't," she replied quietly, meeting the cursewright's gaze with a disconcerting evenness. "You need to fashion me a cure. Can you?"

Ammas  spread his hands, his hat chiming softly in one of them. "That is the problem, your highness. Each ritual required a different cure. There are over a dozen methods of curing an infected werewolf. The one I administered to you was the last one developed before my fellowship was destroyed, and so no one had ever observed its effects on a ritual werewolf."

Carala frowned. "But I thought you were speaking of incurable strains?"

"I am. The werewolf on whom such a rite was performed will never be cured; the ritual scars his essence and spirit in a way that no method has ever successfully treated. It is why it was considered such an obscenity; why the cursewrights and astrologers of the day allied to destroy the Sons of the Moon." A slender note of optimism crept into Ammas's voice. "But when a ritual werewolf infects another -- that victim might be cured. The traditional remedies do not work, and in some cases do not work violently. As we have learned. But somewhere, a remedy does exist."

"But you don't know what it might be."

"I could make a guess. Some of the rituals were recorded, and I have one or two in my own library. But a guess is all it would be, and if you react as poorly to one of those treatments as the one I prescribed, the results could be disastrous. We must find someone with greater experience in these matters, or we must find where Tacen came from and persuade them to assist us."

Barthim grinned maliciously, cracking his knuckles loud enough to make Casimir and Lena both jump a little.

"I thought of going to Gallowsport," Carala said with a regretful set to her mouth. "But I thought if the man Tacen spoke of had been working with him, he would be dangerous for me to meet."

"I agree with you."

"That is not exactly comforting, Master Cursewright."

Barthim snorted laughter. Ammas glared at him over one shoulder.

"All I mean is, going to Gallowsport would be my last choice. Only if there is no other way. I simply do not believe whoever is responsible for this -- and it may well be an ex-cursewright, because I don't know who else would have access to such vile lore -- will cooperate with you or me. I expect blood. I expect resistance. And at the end we may simply end up dying for our efforts, or with a dead ex-cursewright who can tell us nothing ever again."

"Our efforts?" A bitter laugh hissed through the princess's teeth. "Why should I trust you to the point our efforts should pool at all, Master Cursewright?"

Lena made another impatient noise, but Barthim placed a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head, one finger pursed to his lips.

"Because," Ammas replied quietly, "I have pledged you my service. And before you accept or reject it, I will tell you things, give you an option that if your father ever learned of would cost me my head and mean the end of my fellowship for good. I can think of no other way to repair my mistake. Once we shook hands over the agreed payment, I was sworn to make such repairs if I had to."