52

 

Bulion Tharn was milking cows. An infinite barn of cows stretched before him, all clamoring to be milked. Milk red as blood flowed out from the bucket to lap over his boots. He was knee-deep in blood and still it poured from the udder, from the bucket, everywhere. Torrents of blood flowed through the barn, through a universe of cows. Quite impossible. He must be dreaming this.

He opened his eyes with a grunt of relief. The roof was a solid, comforting structure of timber, but rectangular, not properly round, with sunlight pouring in through windows, instead of seeping in under eaves… but it would do. He was running sweat, sweltering hot in the soft bed. Memory came gushing back. These were the guest quarters, which he had seen only by lantern light. From the angle of the sunbeams, the hour must be close to noon. He had not slept this late in his entire life before, which explained why he had been dreaming of milking time. He reached out an arm and discovered that he was alone.

He sat up quickly, too quickly. His clothes lay discarded on a chair; Gwin’s were missing. He threw off the covers and scrambled from the bed.

 

The commons was a long room with benches and plank tables set on a flagstone floor. Swallows nested in the rafters, twittering, swooping in and out through unglazed windows. The view on one side was of the rambling guest quarters and the other of the back of the Hall. Today’s gravel pile that had replaced yesterday’s East Wing was not visible.

Wosion and Tibal Frainith sat together at the far end. Wosion seemed to be lost in thought; the Shoolscath was reading his diary. They looked up as Bulion drew close, trying not to appear hurried.

Wosion’s ferrety smile would have paralysed a rabbit at two hundred paces. “Afternoon, Father! Sleep well?”

“Where’s Gwin?”

“Ah. She went for a walk. Had some things to think about, she said.”

“She’d had a long chat with Par Saj,” the Shoolscath explained, amusement evident all over his bony face.

“You let her go?” Bulion roared. “Alone?”

His son shrugged. “She said she didn’t want company.”

“Idiots! She’s in danger here now!”

“Thiswion’s keeping an eye on her,” Wosion said innocently.

Better! Bulion sank down on the bench beside him. “I hope he took his sword, or his bow?”

“He took Jukion! And Ulpion’s scouting ahead of her. That boy could creep up on a hare and tickle its ears. So relax! Not that you’ve done anything else yet today, have you? There’s some food left here. Zanion’s checking on our livestock.”

Feeling singularly old and useless, Bulion inspected the long-dead remains of breakfast with distaste—fruit, bread, ham, cheese, all singularly old and useless. Flies were feasting on them. When they had gorged, they flew off unsteadily and were nabbed by alert swallows swooping past. Wosion took up a pitcher and filled a clay beaker with a frothy fluid that smelled of yeast and hops. He scooped a couple of insects out with his fingers and passed the beaker to his father.

Bulion tried it. It was tepid, but not too bad. “What did she learn from Par a’Ciur ?”

The resulting hesitation was not encouraging.

“Gwin’ll be back in a minute,” Tibal said quietly. “She’ll explain. Par is a wonderful old lady, and very knowledgeable. I’m sure she broke the news as gently as it can be broken.”

“I don’t suppose either of you haystacks could drop me a hint, could you?”

Wosion sighed. “It confirms what I thought I remembered. There’s an old belief… A theory, more like…”

“The trouble with Poulscaths,” Tibal said, “is that no one knows very much about them. They’re extremely rare and they don’t sit around and let you examine them. Gwin will be the best-documented instance of… Never mind.”

“I am about to become homicidal,” Bulion said. “I thought I ought to warn you both.”

Wosion rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Pantholion. Even in his day, there was always gossip that he was a Poulscath.”

Bulion’s empty beaker hit the table with a thud. He felt as if his heart had landed on the floor.

“And Losso Lomith was another,” Tibal added. “The first one there’s any record of. No one knew much about fatalism before he set up the Academy, and of course he wasn’t about to let the Academy examine him when he was emperor.”

“Seven Curses!” Bulion whispered.

“Very apt, Father.” Wosion leered. “Or should I say, ‘Your Majesty’?” He looked inquiringly at Tibal. “There never was a female emperor, was there?”

“An empress regnant? No, although one or two of the emperors were commonly regarded as figureheads for their wives. And Zarda would be even less likely to accept a woman as leader, right?”

Bulion slammed his fist on the boards. Dishes clattered and his companions jumped. He leaned across at the Shoolscath and roared. “Are you prophesying that my wife is going to set me up as a puppet emperor?” Intolerable!

Tibal swayed back on his bench. “No, Saj! I do not prophesy that at all! I never prophesy, I mean.” His gaunt cheeks had turned chalky. What could make a Shoolscath react like that?

“You’re lying, you accursed backward-thinking, mind-twisting seer!”

“No, Saj! Here’s Gwin now!”

Bulion heaved himself to his feet and almost overbalanced as he turned to greet his wife. She hugged him and then moved back a pace to regard him critically.

“I see they broke the news! Not exactly a heart-warming prospect is it?” She stepped over the bench and sat on it.

“Perhaps we should leave?” Wosion laid both hands on the table expectantly. Tibal did not move.

“No, you may as well stay,” Gwin said. “Sit down, love.”

Bulion obeyed. “Pantholion?” he groaned. “Losso Lomith?”

Gwin nodded. She was a little paler than usual, but under control. “I’m in distinguished company, it seems. One or two others…” She bit her lip and did not specify. “You all right, Tibal?”

“What else?” Bulion demanded.

She toyed with a fig, turning it around on itself with one finger. “Poul is ruler of destiny. The way Par a’Ciur put it, a Poulscath is a rock in the stream of history. Everyone else is swept along by the current, like leaves. A Poulscath stands against the flow, diverting it into a new path.”

It should have been obvious, of course. The absurd prophesies of him as Renewer, the hints that his wife was Cursed by Poul—they could not be unrelated. One led to the other.

“What Pantholion said,” said Wosion, “was, ‘I am the trunk and my people are the leaves. They are raindrops; I am the wind. They…’” He smiled nervously at his father and fell silent.

“Do you have any say in this?” Bulion barely knew his own voice. “Can you refuse the honor? Or are you compelled to fulfil your destiny? Do you now rush out and conquer the Karpana… conquer the whole fucking continent and set me up on a throne?”

Gwin turned the fig the other way in silence.

The other two were watching her intently. Wosion was not hiding his concern, although he very rarely let his true feelings show. Tibal Frainith had recovered from his fright and wore his usual worshipful expression that Bulion had come to know, and dislike, and was tempted to remove with a fist. That long strip of mystery was always following her around, gazing at her with doting mooncalf looks. Bulion had had about enough of the Shoolscath.

“I imagine I can stop now,” Gwin told the fig, “but that may bring the Karpana down on us. I don’t see how we can possibly just ride out of here and get safely home to the valley.”

The flies buzzed undisturbed for a moment. Even the swallows seemed to have fallen silent to listen. Then Bulion pulled himself together and put an arm around her. “That’s the catch?”

She leaned into his embrace without ceasing her pestering of the fig. “Probably. Nobody knows. Par a’Ciur thinks there have been one or two people tentatively identified as Poulscaths who refused the call. They would not rise to greatness, was how she put it.”

“And what happened to them?”

“They died.” She shivered. “In unfortunate ways. That seems to be the catch. Once you start along the road, you can’t turn back.”

“Then don’t start!”

Gwin rolled the fig over.

“She’s already started, Father,” Wosion said. “She started when she left Daling. Remember how Cursed flocked to her?”

Gwin looked around at Bulion and then away again. “Or did it start when I asked Niad to cure you? Or when Tibal came, the day before. He was the first to arrive. That was when I first heard my Voice.”

“What’s his interest in this?” Bulion glared at the tall man. Meddling young freak!

“Believe me,” Tibal said softly, “if I could say, if I could even hint, I would do so gladly, Bulion Saj. I foresee misfortune and sadness, of course, but if I try to divert it, then I shall bring disaster on—”

“I know all that claptrap!”

“—on myself, and I may also disable the glory that will be Gwin’s.”

Glory? Glory? What sort of a selfish old fool was he, to be worried about his own comfort, his own self-esteem, when Gwin had a chance for glory?

“Glory?” He squeezed her tighter. “Is that what you want? Glory?”

She did not answer. He had never seen her subdued like this. Several swallows swooped in and the nestlings set up a greedy racket.

“The first thing they taught me at Veriow,” Wosion remarked, “and the last thing, was that a pastor’s paramount duty is to help his flock accept whatever the fates send. I have never found that advice harder to give than I do now, or seen it as weaker comfort.”

Gwin spoke as if she had not heard him. “No, I don’t want glory, love. I want what you want—to go back to the valley and live in peace. But that isn’t our choice at the moment. Either I continue to defy Labranza Lamith and try to master her, or we throw ourselves on her mercy. Which should it be, Bull? You decide.”

He did not know what to say. Those who threw themselves on that woman’s mercy were not likely to have a soft landing. “I’d sooner shave eggs for a living than trust that one. I think you have to go on for now, love.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You see how it will be? One thing leads to another. Every choice brings you more choices and drags you along a little farther. You can’t dismount from the tiger.”

Zanion had come in and was approaching the shocked little group around the table, but nobody paid him any heed.

“This is true,” Wosion said. “Pantholion wanted to save his people from the Karpana. He led them across the Nildu and petitioned the empire to give them safe grazing somewhere. He offered fealty. The empire feared him, refused him, and tried to drive the Zarda back. Pantholion resisted. In the end he sacked Qol and smashed the empire, smashed the fragments that rose against him, smashed everyone until there was nothing left.”

“And Losso the reverse?” Bulion asked glumly.

Gwin answered. “Losso the same. Raragash was a pit of savages. He discovered that he could be their master. At first all he wanted was to escape and live in civilization instead of being a beast. The empire tried to hunt him down, an escaped Cursed. He was forced to fight back. In the end he took the throne and his line raised the empire to the greatest glory it ever knew.”

“Those two succeeded, love. Tell me of the ones who failed! Seems to me that you can only recognize a Poulscath after he’s dead.”

“Labranza’s very words!” Tibal said cheerfully. “She will convene the council meeting this evening, but she won’t let you in, Gwin. You have to prove that you’re a Poulscath, and there is no way you can. So Labranza says, anyway. Baslin won’t concede without proof, so she’ll have the deadlock she needs.”

Gwin picked up the fig and bit into it. “Maybe. Losso and Pantholion both arose when the times were ripe. They couldn’t look any riper than they do right now. But which is worse? To try and raise an army against the Karpana, or hide in these hills and let them waste the kingdoms one by one? Either way, Kuolia drowns in blood. Which road leads to the lesser slaughter?”

Bulion recalled his dream of the infinite cows.

“Not even a Shoolscath can ever know that sort of answer,” Tibal said.

She frowned at him. “The council will meet at sunset?”

He swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple jumping. “Remember I’m like the others, Gwin—I can’t refuse to answer your questions. In this case there’s no harm in it, but please don’t keep asking.”

“Sorry.”

“Yes, sunset. Ordur’s gone off to be confirmed by his group. No risk there—Jasbur’s got them all fired up already. Ziberor has a long way to come.”

But what would the council meeting solve? Labranza only needed two. She could control the Muolscath, and the Ziberor woman was her strongest supporter. Others might rally to her side to counter this unknown threat. Bulion realized that Gwin was looking at him with an odd expression—quizzical? challenging?

She said, “Poulscath nonsense! Why don’t you take that crazy wife of yours to bed and knock some sense into her?”

“Now? In the middle of the day?”

She pulled free of his arm and stood up. “That’s where I’m going. I didn’t get much sleep.” She walked away, head proudly high.

He rose and hurried after her. As he held the door open, he glanced back at the watchers. Wosion looked shocked. Zanion was smiling approvingly. Tibal Frainith had buried his face in his hands.