The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 22: The Princess's Hunt, Part 7

 There were no games of Whistling Jack that night. Part of it had been due to sheer anxiety -- this patch of ground between two wheatfields felt horribly exposed, however soothing the shrine to Simori the Traveler might be -- but more of it had been the dour mood that hung over them all after Vos told them of the events at the Silverlamp Theatre. None of them shared the story with Casimir. That had been an unspoken agreement, though Barthim surely would have put a stop to it if Vos or Denisius had been foolish enough to try. 

But the boy knew something was wrong. His own mood, though much improved since talking to Ammas, succumbed to the same pall that lingered over the others'. Denisius huddled closer to the smoldering embers that were all Vos would permit them to use for a campfire, watching the boy as he tossed and turned in his sleep in a bedroll laid out in the back of Barthim's cart. It occurred to him that had things gone differently twenty years ago, at Casimir's age he might have been apprenticed to Ammas himself. He certainly wouldn't have been promised to a daughter of the Emperor, and so he might be able to sleep better than he had since that awful night at Autumnsgrove.

From somewhere to the east, a howl rose into the night. Denisius shivered, clutching his cloak tighter around his arms. They had heard several such howls since moonrise, and only once had it come from the west, from where Carala was. This one, though, was unnervingly close. He tried not to think of the Princess in her wolf shape, or what Ammas might be doing to keep her from hurting herself or others. It seemed unlikely to be anything too painful. Lord Marhollow was neither blind nor stupid, and he hadn't failed to notice the looks that sometimes passed between the two of them. If the cold reality of Briarcliff had not been made clear to him, he supposed he might have felt more jealousy, perhaps even rage. But what he felt mostly was relief. 

As much horror as he might feel at his father's actions -- understandable though they might have been in light of what had happened to the Mourthias -- he did not want to hurt Carala with it. Even now he didn't know how he might break it to her, that he would not marry her in no small part because of her father's butchery. Briarcliff was a very pretty place in its ruin, one of the few things that drew people to Marhollow, and in more idle days he had imagined roaming its tumbled stones and vine-covered statues with Carala at his side. The thought of doing so now sickened him.

With a reverence only Casimir usually showed such things, Denisius turned the skymetal blade over in his hands. They had taken turns with it, passing it from one to the other as each of them assumed the watch. Casimir hadn't been pleased with it, but it had been what Ammas asked of him. Golden swirls of light lurked in the depths of the gracefully curving blade, recalling the weapon's otherworldly origins. This blade was a thing out of legend, and he had never expected to hold one in his hands. Supposedly the Imperial Museum in Talinara had a few in its archives, but he had never seen them on display. It made him think of Ammas, and how much he was risking for Carala's sake. 

A smile touched his lips. In his heart he had forsaken the Princess, but after the initial shock he had felt at Doyenne Sulivar's words that had become a distant, secondary concern. More important to him was the notion he must redeem his family's honor, at least in his own eyes -- that he would do what was necessary to cure her without wanting the reward of a marriage paid for with the blood of the scholars of Briarcliff.

Denisius knew perfectly well Lorith or Steffen would not have done it. Assuming either of them had even been troubled by what their father had done -- Steffen might have blanched, but Lorith would have considered it perfectly acceptable, he thought -- neither of them would have bothered staying on with this frustrating expedition, letting the Princess and her pet cursewright fend for themselves. Vos's grin and admiring words that night in the Four Winds returned to him, and his smile broadened, a rueful gleam in his eye. Maybe Ammas felt the same: that because a man like the Emperor would expect savagery and revenge from the last Mourthia, then he must do precisely the opposite of what was anticipated. In a strange way it made him feel closer to the cursewright. He doubted, however, he would ever be able to speak of such a thing openly to him.

In his fingers the hilt of the dagger began to quiver. Denisius's eyes widened. For a moment he thought he had drifted off and he was in the grip of a dream, for from the dagger's razor edge he seemed to hear the whisper of Ammas's voice. Casimir had told them this might happen, that the skymetal blades could sing to each other (what that meant Denisius didn't really understand), and if Ammas needed their help that was how he would summon them. After seeing the gory ruin Ammas had made of one of the Swiftfoot wolves, and especially after what he had seen below Munazyr, Denisius hadn't really thought Ammas would ever need their help. Yet here was his voice, barely audible, more felt than heard, murmuring strange unnerving words in a language Lord Marhollow did not know.

Then he understood -- really understood -- that Ammas and therefore Carala were in trouble, and he leapt to his feet, shouting to awaken Barthim and Vos.

Vos, no stranger to sleeping lightly in the field, was up and on his feet in seconds. Denisius suspected Barthim had been shamming sleep (his snores were louder than normal, and Denisius was sure he didn't usually sleep with his hands so neatly folded at his breast), and the easy way the bouncer sat upright and took the reins of the roan pair dozing peacefully at the head of their carriage confirmed it. Casimir had been sleeping fitfully in the back, and only began to rouse when the carriage was already moving, Vos crouched beside Barthim with his sword drawn. 

By then Denisius had already mounted his courser, Casimir's dagger still in one hand, charging toward the watchtower at a full gallop, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst before he ever saw the cursewright or the Princess again.

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