The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 16: Daybreak, Part 2

 None of them knew the monastery's name, but it was a typical example of the sort of cloister that dotted the Chalk Hills. Ammas supposed it might have been a success story, its ranks swelled in the years after the dissolution and so its members moved to a larger institution elsewhere in the Anointed Realms. Or perhaps it had been something as prosaic as poor soil; a monastery that was not self-sustaining was impermissible under the holy orders of any of the Ninefold faiths. 

But by the tenets of the Ninefold Vow even an abandoned monastery could not be allowed to fall too deeply into disrepair, and so this place had survived as a little-used waystation for lost or weary travelers. The old cemetery and nearby grove were a bit overgrown, but had probably seen token maintenance at some point in the last five years. There were no gaping holes in the ceiling of either the central tower or the adjacent wings. The outer walls were weathered, but not crumbled, though the gateway was only an open arch with neither door nor fence. What little decay the place showed was more likely due to its proximity to the Straits of Twilight than the mere fact of its abandonment.

A sparse courtyard, overgrown with parched grass, was formed by the outer walls and the central tower's wings. From the edge of the gate to one corner stood a low wooden structure that could only be a stable. Smoke from a cookfire rose from its edge. Carala and Casimir were standing nearby, Casimir arguing goodnaturedly with Barthim over just how much bacon they should cook. 

"Lord Marhollow is not looking very hungry, Cass. I will cook it if you are insisting, but I think this is just your way of asking for seconds."

"It is not," Casimir said primly. "If he's really sick, he should eat."

"Listen to him, Barthim. He's the apprentice cursewright, not you." Ammas smiled from under his hat as he strode across the courtyard. Thankfully Barthim did not sweep him into a hug this time, though the bouncer's relief at Ammas's appearance was palpable. "Where are Denisius and Vos? I need to speak to them at once."

Barthim led him down the rows of empty stalls, several of which they had occupied with bedrolls. The place still smelled faintly of horse. Carala and Casimir followed close behind. Vos was seated on a low stool, toying with a cigar as his gaze moved from the stall beside him to Ammas and back again. "Morning, Ammas. How's the hand? Her ladyship bind it up properly?"

"She did. With your help, I understand."

Vos nodded, smiling vaguely, his eyes troubled. Carala looked away with a blush.

"Let me take a look at Denisius." Vos rose from his stool, arms crossed on his chest, still fidgeting with his cigar. Ammas stepped to the edge of the stall and looked down at its occupant.

Lord Marhollow was wrapped in a blanket and crouched over a splintered wooden bucket, a sickly odor of vomit lingering in the air. Sweat beaded on his forehead and when he turned his eyes up his face looked even paler than Ammas when he had collapsed at the tomb. 

With a murmur the cursewright took Vos's stool and seated himself in front of the young man. "Not feeling well, I take it? What's the trouble?"

"I think nerves," he said in a papery whisper. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"Perhaps. But what are your symptoms?"

"Can't seem to keep food or water down. My head is spinning. And -- "

" -- and I imagine you have a wretched itch on your hands and feet, and it's spreading."

A little nonplussed, Denisius nodded.

"Give me your injured hand."

None of them missed how badly Denisius's hand was shaking as he extended it to Ammas. The cursewright had donned a pair of gloves forged from fine mail links, their metal surface lacquered a dull black. Carala hissed as Ammas examined Lord Marhollow's hand: his first two fingers were covered in hideous yellow blisters, and a few more had welled up on the back of his hand. Frowning, Ammas peered close, tilting his hat back a little so he could bring Denisius's hand nearly level with his nose. Clucking his tongue thoughtfully, the cursewright took from his belt his twinhooks. With its golden prongs Ammas lightly prodded the largest of the blisters. Denisius grimaced, flinching all over.